


Jötunheimr — Part One: Once

by aylithe



Series: Jötunheimr [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Dysphoria, Developing Relationship, F/M, Family Drama, Jötunn Loki, Loki Is Not A Runt, Mild Sexual Content, Political Drama, Slow Burn, Thor Is Not Stupid, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 198,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aylithe/pseuds/aylithe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki was taken back by Jötunheimr after Thor's assault on the realm for the sake of peace. Thrust into a new and terrifying world of monsters, Loki must overcome his prejudices if he ever wants to truly feel at peace with himself. And to do that, he must love, lie, face betrayals, and come to grips with his new family on his path.</p><p>And in Asgard, Thor will stop at nothing to return his brother to his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the wonderful **[SingingFlames](http://archiveofourown.org/users/singingflames)** with the occasional guest appearance by **[likeatumbleweed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/likeatumbleweed)**. You guys have made my job a whole lot easier~

_Once,_ _there were two brothers who thought the worlds of each other. Once, they would have fought through fire and blood if it meant the other would have been safe. Once, they would have sacrificed their lives in the place of the other. Once they trusted each other with all their hearts._

_But Once was a long time ago, and things change between Once and Now._

_Once, they followed each other into the jaws of the wolf, and the result is Now._

_Now, they would end each other._


	2. Chapter One - Bad Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 25-11-2015**

When the giant caught hold of him, Loki braced himself for the pain of its touch. First, he tried to wrench his arm away, but when it soon became obvious the jötunn’s grip was absolute, he steeled his mind, determined not to cry out. The armour crumbled to nothing, and when the pain still refused to come, Loki, lip curled in a snarl, and mind fraught with the waiting, looked down—

—and choked.

At first, he thought it was the promised frostbite of the touch, but with so much bare skin rapidly turning blue, it was too hard to believe the adrenaline of the battle was blocking the pain. And more so, deep within his mind, he could feel something _moving_ , stirring like a beast rousing from slumber. It was painful in a way. Animal fear twisted his gut, and he found it difficult to breathe what with the sudden hard knot of panic in his chest, and the ache in his head.

The beast had to let him go.

But instead of going after the frost giant with another knife, Loki’s free hand shot forward. He grabbed the jötunn by the throat and, before he could even think, drew himself up to his full height and _snarled_ with wolf-like ferocity. Loki would have thought the creature’s expression of shock funny in another time, but he was more preoccupied with the feeling of whatever magic it was casting upon him crawling further up his arm. Whilst it was distracted, he summoned a dagger and drove it into the frost giant’s throat. Magic flared bright green as the uru dagger struck, and the monster fell backwards without a sound. Loki stumbled away, pulling in ragged gasps. He hated himself for admitting that the touch’s effects had felt good, and that when his skin regained its normal appearance, it felt tight … uncomfortable. But he couldn’t afford to pay it due — he was more concerned with the  _why_. Volstagg had suffered under jötunn hands, so why hadn’t he? Why had  _this_  happened?

 _I was defending myself_ , he reasoned. _It was my magic._

A shout of pain brought him back to his senses. He whipped around, heart thudding as he caught sight of Fandral, sagging against the stalagmite of ice through his shoulder. The warrior’s easy smile had vanished, his sword clattering from his slack hand and onto the ice. The jötunn who had stabbed him marched forth, readying its ice blade to finish the job. Loki cursed, pulling a knife from his belt that he sent forth with a flick of the wrist. It sliced through the air and embedded itself into the jötunn’s eye, and it fell back with a scream.

“Thor!” Loki hollered. “We must go!”

Volstagg and Hogun lifted Fandral off the spike as his brother bellowed, “Then go!”

Thor was a terrifying figure to behold in the heat of battle — tall, golden, fierce, strong: perfect. The boyish eagerness with which he fought the jötnar around him, the utter sociopathic mindset at the slaughter, wasn’t present in his friends and brother now. The others — Loki, Fandral, Volstagg, Hogun, and the Lady Sif — had had enough.

Thor threw Mjölnir through the jötnar, clearing a path. Loki and the others took the opening and, with Fandral slung across Volstagg’s huge shoulders, ran across the open ice to the Bifröst site.

“Thor—” Sif said sharply, but Loki cut across her.

“Leave him; he’ll be fine!”

Loki ignored the looked of incredulity and anger she gave him.

“Sif, Loki is right,” Hogun said. He swung his morningstar at an oncoming jötunn, and the creature stumbled, bellowing in pain as the weapon crushed the bone in its arm. “Thor will be able to get himself out of this.”

Sif’s reluctance at leaving Thor was clear, but Loki had no time to dwell on it. The ground jolted beneath them, and a growl of stone-against-stone rumbled through the air.

Loki whipped around, fear igniting in his chest as he saw some beast, some titanic monster that he had taken as a mere statue of Laufey’s, move; ice fell from its leathery hide as it shook itself. It was a bulky thing; its shoulders were all muscle, and blunt spikes ran along its back. Loki could see at the junction of its neck and sholders a _geis_ to harness the thing. Huge teeth lined its mouth, tusk-like protrusions protected its jaw, and upon its feet were equally sharp claws. The tail was a heavy club and covered in spines. Its small eyes fixed upon the party of Æsir, and it roared before charging after them.

“ _Run!_ ” Volstagg bellowed.

No one needed to be told twice. They fled. Loki flew ahead of them, feet hardly slipping on the ice whilst the others tripped and stumbled behind him. He could feel the heavy footfalls of the thing behind them, and he gave a sharp look over his shoulder. It was gaining on them, eyes narrowed, and nostrils flaring.

“Thor!” Sif shouted.

And then, as miraculously as if he had heard them, Thor acted. Loki couldn’t see him personally, but he’d be hard-pressed to miss the lightning as it streaked down from the sky, and the  _crack!_  as the icy ground shattered beneath the Thunderer’s feet. The shriek of cracking ice and crash of falling rock echoed in their ears as the ground broke apart under Mjölnir’s lightning. Jötnar fell into the earth with screams of fear and rage, dozens of them going to their deaths. But the five of them were hardly safe — the beast was still after them, bounding over the ice and snapping and snarling on their heels.

But then, suddenly, it too fell — a fissure had opened under its feet. It swung its tail, the spikes burying themselves into the ice in an attempt to stop its fall, but it slipped. It fell with a roar as the bowels of the planet swallowed it.

Fandral laughed weakly. “It’s gone,” he whispered hoarsely. “We’re home free.”

“No,” Loki said with a grimace, leaping over a boulder. “It’s not.”

“You’re jumping at ghosts,” Sif admonished.

“Heimdallr!” shouted Volstagg as they skidded to a stop at the Bifröst site. “Open the Bridge!”

Silence for a few heartbeats. Then a huge claw landed in front of them.

They started back, watching with horror as the beast pulled itself up the cliff face, looking at them all with undisguised contempt. It rose, settling itself on its hind legs as it reared skyward. Sif muttered a few choice words as she brandished her sword, Volstagg his axe single-handedly, and Hogun twirled his morningstar in hand.

“Told you,” Loki muttered, pulling a dagger from the negative space. However, before they could so much as twitch, something flew overhead. With a crunch, it smashed into the beast’s mouth. The beast teetered for a second, as if it were trying to understand what had happened, before the eyes rolled back in its head and it fell from the cliff. Thor landed in front of them, gore painting his armour, his mantle torn. He turned, a grin plastered firmly on his face, but it faltered as he caught sight of what lay behind them.

Loki turned. While they had been occupied, several dozen frost giants had advanced on them. They studied them with those unsettling crimson eyes, and Loki flinched as he recognised Laufey at the front. There was something in his eyes that made Loki readjust the grip on his dagger — a look of scrutiny….

The jötnar started forwards, weapons raised and ready for use, then a deep  _boom_  echoed through the night, accompanied by a distant scream of power. Then, Loki’s utter relief, Bifröst opened. However, it wasn’t for them to jump back to Asgard in a great escape — it was to deposit another.

A horse materialised from the Bridge — a huge, dark grey charger with eight legs upon which sat Odin Allfather. He was wearing full battle armour, and held Gungnir aloft in his hand as Sleipnir’s neigh rang through the crackling air. The hooves struck the ice beneath him like hammers on an anvil.

“Father!” bellowed Thor, his smile returning to his face at once. “We’ll finish them together!”

“Silence.” Odin’s hiss was cold, and Thor’s grin dropped just as quickly as it had come back.

The ice crunched as Laufey summoned himself a perch and rose up to Odin’s eye level. He looked at him with calculating, hooded eyes, and smiled. “Allfather. You look weary.”

“Laufey,” Odin acknowledged.

Laufey’s eyes never left the Allfather’s, and his lip curled. “Your boy sought this out,” he rumbled.

“You’re right, but they are the actions of a boy — treat them as such. You and I can end this here and now, before there is further bloodshed.”

“You think that so much death and destruction will be ignored because of your boy’s slight offence?” Laufey demanded. “You make a mockery of me, Spearbreaker.”

Odin said, “War is the last thing both of our realms need.”

Laufey’s face, shadowed by the huge horns upon his brow — the only jötunn who had them, Loki noted — was conflicted. He was itching for a fight: that much was clear. His pride was at stake if he backed down, but Odin was right — Jötunheimr could not suffer through another war, and everyone there knew it.

Loki shivered as Laufey’s bloody gaze flicked to him once again. He thought he saw his father stiffen from the corner of his eye.

Laufey’s eyes narrowed. “Who is he?” His voice was strangled with some thought or emotion Loki was frustrated he couldn’t place.

“He is no one of importance,” Odin said a little too crisply.

Loki felt a stab of anger. How  _dare_  he say that? His shoulders stiffened, and his grip tightened on the dagger he still held.

“Hardly, I would think. I saw him fight; I saw something … strange.”

Loki choked on his breath. Norns, he hadn’t seen his arm, had he, or the snarl? He subconsciously hugged it to himself, unwilling to meet Laufey’s eyes as the jötunn king stepped from his perch and advanced on him slowly, deliberately.

“Laufey, leave him be,” Odin said sharply.

“Allow me to at least satisfy my curiosity, Allfather, against this person of unimportance.”

Laufey reached for him, and Loki took a step back. “Do not sully me with your touch,” he snapped.

“Aye,” Odin said, nudging Sleipnir forward a step. “Lay a finger on my son, and I promise you will regret it.”

But Laufey ignored them both. He reached for Loki’s shoulder, grabbing his clothes in a fist, and touched a finger to his cheek. Loki flinched back from the contact. Again, there was that sense of  _rightness_  that overcame him where Laufey’s finger was, the stirring in his mind; it felt like the flexing of a stiff muscle.

Laufey sucked in a breath. “No. Impossible. He died….”

“Laufey,” said his father, his voice low with warning.

Laufey’s eyes contracted, but then something flickered through them: comprehension. His lips curled back in a snarl. “You thief…. You  _thief_!” he roared so loudly Loki winced. “After all these years of silence, and you come back with  _this_? Tell me why I should not kill you where you stand.”

Loki’s stomach dropped. He didn’t understand what was going on. He looked up imploringly to Thor’s friends, desperately looking for some sort of answer, but they were staring at him, horror-struck.

 _What is it?_  Loki wanted to scream at them, but he was too shocked to do anything other than stand there, Laufey’s hand still gripping his shoulder tight enough to bruise.

“You want to end this without any further bloodshed?” Laufey fumed. “I will do this if, and only if, you pay my price — him. It is for you to decide — war, or him.”

“You know I cannot.” Odin’s voice was quiet, but there was evident anger in his tone.

“You can, and you will. He stays, and if you carry him back to Asgard, nothing you can say or do will stop me from tearing it down. Your realm will lie in ruins, and I will have him back. He is mine; you had  _no_  right—”

“No,” Loki interjected. Him, stay here on Jötunheimr? He was confused, angry, terrified, and searching desperately amongst their faces for answers. Odin’s face was impassive, his eye on Loki hard and unforgiving. If there were any torn heartstrings at the choice he was faced with, they were buried deep.

But Thor … Thor, who wore his heart on his sleeve, looked stunned, angry, hurt, and just as confused as Loki felt. “You can’t,” he said simply. “Father, we cannot leave my brother here.”

“‘Brother’?” Laufey asked, furious. Spittle flew from his mouth. “He is just as much your brother as I am. His heritage lines speak as much.”

“Lines?” Thor spluttered. “What lines?”

“The lines of the House of Laufey; the lines he has carried since the night he was born.”

“No.” Loki shook his head, fighting against Laufey’s hold. “I have no lines; I am of no relation to you. You’re deluded.”

“I am far from delusional.” Laufey towered over the Allfather and said, “If it is peace you wish for, then this is it. Leave now, leave my son with me, and you will live to fight another night.”

“I’m not your son!” Loki howled. “I’m not!” He looked to his father again, waiting for him to chastise Laufey on his mistake, to have him released, but Odin wouldn’t meet his eyes. “No. Father, please…. You can’t be considering this….”

The Allfather did nothing.

“… Father?”

His father’s eyes bored into him. “As recompense to this realm for my son’s mistake, Loki will stay. This is my decree.”

 _No. No no no_  NO _!_ Loki began to struggle in earnest, clothes ripping under Laufey’s hand.

Laufey’s eyes were alight with malice. “I banish you and the Æsir from this realm. If I find you have gone against my commands, there will be war. Do not take this warning as lightly as you took our agreement of peace,  _Allfather_.”

“So be it.”

“Father, no!” Thor shouted, but the Allfather raised Gungnir high. “ _Loki!_ ” Thor lunged for Loki, hand outstretched. Bifröst opened again and took away Thor, Sif, the Warriors Three, and Odin. Only Loki was left behind, a scream on his lips as he looked to where his father, and his world, had vanished.

* * *

#

* * *

“Let go! Release me!”

Loki thrashed in the grip of the frost giants, kicking and writhing as they made their way back to Laufey’s throne.

“Be still, my prince,” one growled.

“I am not — your — _prince_!” Loki snarled. He tore at them with his teeth and nails, but they were too big, their grips on him too tight, and he couldn’t get a good footing. His magic was gone, used up in the battle to the point he couldn’t even open the negative space. His dagger had been wrestled from him and thrown over the cliff into the abyss. He fought only to get away.

“Enough,” Laufey growled lowly.

“I am not yours to order, monster!” Loki bellowed.

Laufey paused and turned to look at him. Loki knew he had gone too far with that, and he shrunk back as the jötunn king advanced on him. His heart was a thunder drum in his ears, his eyes shining with disbelief and betrayal.

“Monster, am I?” Laufey mused. Loki was dropped on the ground. After all the running, all the desperation to get back to the Bifröst site, he was back here and kneeling.

“I am no monster, as you are no monster,” Laufey said. “You are a jötunn with the views of savages.”

“I am not jötunn,” Loki spat, eyes fixed on the ground.

“Take his coat,” Laufey commanded. “Take his clothes until his instinct takes over and he shifts.”

“Unhand me!”

Loki writhed as the jötnar tore his clothes from his body and dropped them unceremoniously into piles. Soon, he only had his trousers left. And the shock of the cold air on his bare skin was anything but pleasant. Loki inhaled sharply, instinctively curling into a ball and rocking back and forth in an effort to stay warm.

“Shift your skin,” Laufey said. “ _Now._ ”

But Loki couldn’t shift — he had nothing to shift into. He sat, shivering and refusing to look at any of them.

Laufey said, “So be it.”

Before Loki could spit even a word at him, Laufey grabbed the back of his neck.

The cold nearly made him black out, and something in his chest broke. He felt change come over him, and it was  _painful_  — it was as if fire had dowsed his nerves. Something snapped in his mind with the clean little noise like that of a wishbone broken, and Loki howled. He curled in on himself, clawing at his skin and gripping his hair in a desperate attempt to relieve the agony. There was nothing he could do, nothing to soothe the pain as whatever it was that had broken in his mind was wrenched away viciously.

And then, suddenly, the cold started to feel less distance, even pleasant as the sensation of change spread from his core to his arms and legs — it was as if a clenched muscle had suddenly been relaxed. He was growing as well; the seams of his trousers strained and snapped, and his belt dug into his hips. His teeth were elongating, thickening, and Loki felt them with his tongue: each tooth felt like it had been filed to a point, and his canines had lengthened — he felt like he had a mouth of wolf’s teeth. His hands went to his head as it spilt apart in pain. He whimpered as he felt his skull stretching, changing shape as dense horn formed under his fingers.

Laufey released him, and Loki fell to the floor, eyes watering, gasping for breath as the rest of the pain abated. He felt his stomach heave, and he fought down the vomit rising in his throat. He spat onto the ground, swaying slightly as he moved himself to his hands and knees.

“You haven’t done that for a long time, have you?” Laufey said from above him. “Odin’s spell had its claws in you.”

“Damn you,” Loki gasped. He choked as he heard his voice, a hand going to his throat at the gravelly texture of it. _What is this?_

“Stand.”

Loki looked at Laufey furiously, neck cricking from the additional weight of the huge horns.

Laufey then said quietly, “Oblivion, how you look like your dam.”

Loki didn’t respond to that. “Let me go.”

“Let you go to where? To Asgard?” asked Laufey, and Loki swore there was a hint of fury in his tone. “No.”

“You’ve made your point,” Loki said bitterly, “so release me.”

Laufey snarled and, so fast Loki couldn’t draw back, reached out and grabbed one of his horns. Some instinct screamed at him to keep still. He went limp, shivering in fear as Laufey pulled him to his feet. Now they were a height, not an inch between them, and Loki closed his eyes. No. He couldn’t be at eye level with Laufey. It wasn’t possible….

“Get — off.”

“You are not leaving.”

“Do you forbid it?” Loki asked mockingly. “You’re going to stop me from going back?”

“Try if you want, but you cannot go back,” said Laufey, his voice low and dangerous. “With the Casket taken, Bifröst is now the only way off this realm.”

“You’re lying,” Loki growled, eyes sliding open. “You — are —  _lying_. I could go right now and demand Heimdallr to take me back.”

“I will say it again: try if you want, but I suspect he will not listen.”

“I am his prince, not yours, and he is sworn to obey my commands!” Loki thundered. He jerked away from Laufey’s grip, wincing as the bone shifted against its mooring. Lights exploded behind his eyes, and he fell to the ground, holding his head and moaning as he waited for the sudden pain to pass. He reverted to his normal form — a mere act of will, as if he had wished no more than to raise his arm — and shrunk at once.

Loki refused to look at any of the jötnar, instead training his gaze at the ground. “What do you want from me?” he croaked, his lungs searing from the bitterly cold air. “Just what do you want from me?”

“You are my son,” Laufey told him. “My royal blood. Should I have more reason than that?”

“You don’t even know my name,” Loki said. “Do you even care?”

“Loki.”

Laufey’s voice was quiet, but Loki heard it over the winds swirling through the place. He closed his eyes tightly, fighting the lump in his throat.

“Your name is Loki. Loki … Laufeyson.”

“I am not your son,” Loki said hoarsely. But the words were parroted; the words lacked conviction.

“No matter how much you deny it, it is the truth. My blood is writ on your skin and forged in your bones.” Laufey turned to one of the jötnar behind him. “Take him inside — the boy’s about to collapse.” Then, casting another glance at Loki, said, “Perhaps it’d be best to put him to sleep. It’ll calm him.”

Two jötnar gripped him tightly by the upper arms, and he unsuccessfully tried to jerk away. “No!  _No!_ ” Blue swathes of skin crawled up his arms from where they held him. It took a few seconds for the monster to burst forth from him, and he snarled, throwing his weight forward in an effort to shake his captors from him. He was stronger in the jötunn form, he dully realised, and the sudden movement jerked one of them off. Loki twisted around, backhanding the other across the face and throwing her away. His other arm slipped from her grip, and he bolted towards the nearest gap. The jötnar closed it, and Loki tried to change direction. His feet slid out from under him on the ice. He fell with a yelp of surprise, the impact driving the breath from his lungs.

And then they were upon him, holding him down and content to let him exhaust himself struggling. He fell limp eventually, cursing and panting for breath before one of them pinched his nose shut to wrestle something cold and sweet down his throat. They sealed his jaw, forcing him to swallow. It began to have an effect as soon as it trickled into his stomach.

“No….” His grip on reality was slipping away frighteningly fast. The jötnar released him as he fought to hold onto consciousness.

Arms were around him as his eyes slid shut, and some distant part of his mind was surprised at the gentleness they possessed. The last thing he heard was Laufey’s voice above him:

“Destroy his Asgardian things; I will not have them here.”

* * *

#

* * *

As soon as Bifröst pulled them back to the Himinbjörg Observatory, Thor was fighting against the restraining holds of both Volstagg and Hogun.

“Release me!” he bellowed. “Heimdallr, reopen Bifröst at once!  _I command you to reopen it!_ ”

“Bifröst will remain closed,” Odin ordered, striding around to the far side of the mechanism. “As for Jötunheimr, it too will remain closed until I expressly command it to be opened.”

“ _What?_  You will condemn Loki, my brother, to the realm of monsters?!” Thor howled. He turned his burning eyes on Volstagg and Hogun and spat, “Release me if you so value your lives.”

“No,” his father said. “Hold him.”

Volstagg gave Thor a sympathetic look, but his grip tightened.

Thor snarled, “You traitorous—”

“Lady Sif, escort Lord Fandral to the healing rooms,” Odin said. “ _Now_.”

Sif hooked Fandral’s arm around her shoulders and supported him to the Bridge where horses awaited.

Odin turned to his steward who stood at the Observatory’s entrance. “Athalrádr, assemble the Elder Council at once.”

“Of course, Allfather.”

“Summon the Mage Guild as well. I will be with them shortly.”

“I obey, my king.” Athalrádr bowed and left the Observatory along with Heimdallr.

“How could you do such a thing?!” bellowed Thor, elbowing Volstagg between the ribs and kicking out at Hogun. Volstagg grunted in pain, but he continued to hold Thor’s arms behind his back. Hogun swayed back, avoiding Thor’s foot.

Odin seemed unaffected by his rage.

“Loki’s my brother, _your son_ , and you gave him away! You just  _gave_  him to Laufey! And why? For the sake of  _peace_.”

“It was the only way,” Odin said bluntly.

“I don’t care! You should have thought of some other way to abate Laufey! We could crush Jötunheimr in war.” Thor’s breaths were ragged with emotion. “And because of your insolent want of peace, Loki is trapped on Jötunheimr. He has no way back.  _What sort of father does that to his own child?_ ”

“I am not his father by blood, Thor,” Odin said. “He is not your brother by blood, either.”

“You’re a liar,” Thor spat.

“In these politics, feelings and emotions do not matter,” Odin said. “His blood kin demanded him returned, and that was something I could not deny. War has been declared over less, and we were lucky as it was to come out of this without more damage. Tell me what you would have done in my place, Thor. Perhaps if you can come up with a solution to abate both parties we will go back to Jötunheimr. Do you have any other brilliant plans? Hmm?”

Thor ignored Odin’s question. “ _Lucky?_ Loki is not a piece of luck to be handed out! He is ours, not Laufey’s! He is  _ours_! If you were the father you wished to be, you would have fought tooth and nail to keep him here. He is suffering because of you — don’t you dare deny that you didn’t see and hear him pleading for you when you pulled us away from Jötunheimr.” But it was not his brother’s words that haunted Thor now: it was his eyes. Begging.

“And don’t you deny that it doesn’t rip my heart in two,” his father snapped. “As a king, you must make difficult decisions, and this today was the most difficult I have ever made.”

“A decision which took a few seconds to mull over,” Thor accused. “Let me go back! Damn you, Volstagg, release me!”

“Hold him,” Odin said viciously. “It was a decision I had to make for the greater good. War with Jötunheimr is the last thing both of our peoples need. You don’t know the cost in life war demands, and both sides are still recovering from the last. Think on this, Thor — had you not made your rash decisions today, you would not have lost your brother! I hate that the price of your idiocy was the cost of the one thing you hold so dear to yourself.”

Thor was shocked into silence. He clenched his fists, loathing that the words rang true. Volstagg and Hogun let him go cautiously.

After a long pause, Odin said in a low voice, “Thor, I command you, as your father and as your king, that you are not to go after him.” He lifted Gungnir, and Thor was frozen at once, captured by the spear’s innate magic. “Heimdallr,” Odin said, his eye unwavering, “watch Jötunheimr. Report to me anything that is happening around the realm, any traffic at all. I want to know if so much as a jumpcraft passes within five thousand miles of it. I want the blockade tightened.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Isolate Jötunheimr; there has been too much damage done to easily reverse.”

“Father, what are you doing?” Thor demanded. “We can’t! Father—”

“You’ve done enough today, have you not?” The set of the Allfather’s shoulders was tense, and anger lined him. Thor didn’t know if he was imagining the grief there, so desperate was he for some kind of regret. “Once again, I now have to deal with the ramifications of your thoughtless actions. And they have cost us far too much, you cruel, bull-headed  _boy_. You’ve finally outdone yourself today, and caused enough damage for a lifetime.”


	3. Chapter Two - Prince Returned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 25-11-2015**

He curled in on himself in his sleep, images flashing through his mind. The coronation at which his brother was laughing and smiling, tossing his hammer in hand as if he had not a care in the worlds. The crashing of a table weighed with food and wine, and the howl of rage that accompanied it. The confrontation of the Gatekeeper on the Bridge and the irritation that the Watchman had not played along with his effort to stall. Jötunheimr; cold, unforgiving Jötunheimr, where his arm had turned blue and horns had erupted from his brow and Odin had abandoned him to Laufey who called him his son—

The sweet aftertaste of the sleeping draught in his mouth….

Loki’s eyes snapped open, and he shouted, rolling over and reaching for a dagger in the negative space. He swiped out with it for a foe he was sure was there, heart pounding in his chest. And then he saw his arm, the arm that was blue and tipped with thick black nails, the flesh covered with arrowhead patterns. He froze, horrified, and his knife clattered to the floor.

“ _No_ ,” he choked. He fell back against a wall, shifting to his normal skin and holding his arm close. “I’m not—” The urge to crush the limb flew through him.

A smattering of footsteps caught his attention. He tore his eyes away from his arm — his arm that was now thankfully, _blissfully_ , pale — as he looked at his surroundings, shaking himself from the remanets of his sleep. The room was expansive, with a high ceiling and walls made of smooth ice and dark stone carved with images of jötnar and beasts he had never seen nor heard of. Stone furniture — flint and granite was the predominant material choice — was scattered around the room. The doors opposite the bed were grand and made of some sort of dark metal.

The enormous bed he was on was covered in furs. He took these up eagerly, but they were too thin to really have a difference; no doubt no accident on Laufey’s part. His ruined trousers clung loosely around his waist, the stitches torn, and the fine belt buckle destroyed. And, to add to his misery, he was desperately cold. His teeth were chattering loudly, and his extremities were going numb from the low temperature.

Heavy footsteps sounded outside, and the doors were thrown open. Loki jumped as Laufey, flanked by four jötunn guards, marched in. Loki shrunk back in reflex as Laufey looked at him distastefully.

“You wear your Æsir skin,” Laufey said, blunt.

Loki said nothing, only pulled the furs tighter around himself and stared at the king as resentfully as he could. In truth, he feared Laufey. Laufey had been the villain to every story about the jötnar he had been told. Laufey had been the one to start the war, Laufey had been the one to tear Odin’s eye out with his bare hands, Laufey had been the only frost giant who had ever had a name …

“Don’t come any closer,” Loki ordered. “Monster.”

“You speak of monsters,” Laufey said, “and yet you wear the skin of one. You use your gift to imitate your gaolers. I will have no son of mine looking like that.”

Loki cried out as Laufey pushed him roughly against the headboard. The king flung the furs away, and his body temperature dropped. Loki grit his teeth, waiting for the pain like the first time, but, instead, the shift was like the movement of a well-oiled machine — smooth and painless. He hated these newfound instincts, hated them as he felt the weight bearing down upon his head as the horns grew and his body lengthened, as the roughness of his skin scraped against the ice. When it was over, Loki was shaking with fury. Laufey growled softly in warning as Loki kicked at him, missed twice, and then clawed at his arm with a snarl. But it was useless. He hadn’t claws like the rest of the jötnar; his nails were always carefully filed and had little chance to grow—

“Sire?”

Loki’s stomach dropped as he heard the small voice. He paused, and looked around out of shock more than anything else. At the door, a small ruby eye peeked around the edge. A child.

“Helblindi,” Laufey said, a sigh echoing in his tone. “I told you not to come here tonight.”

“But I want to see him,” the jötunn whined. “Everyone’s talking about him, and I want to see him!”

“And so you shall, but that will be later,” Laufey continued patiently. Turning to the guards, he said, “Escort him from here.”

One of the guards nodded and crossed to the door. “Come, little prince; you should not be here now.”

“But I want to see him!”

“Later, as your sire has already told you.”

The small jötunn was herded away with gentle hands before the door shut. A bolt was pulled across the outside.

Loki’s ears were ringing. Sire. The small jötunn had called Laufey  _Sire_ , and Laufey’s reaction to it told him that this was no title granted by kingship. His mind was a whirlwind.

 _Say, and say hypothetically_ _,_ he thought,  _that I believe Laufey, then that would mean … that would mean …_

“You have been asleep for a night cycle; your brothers grow impatient.”

“Thor is my brother,” Loki said, his voice hollow. “I have no other brothers.” He hadn’t missed the use of the plural — there were  _more_  of them?

Laufey let out a noise of frustration and hauled Loki from the floor. Loki yelped, his bare feet scraping along the floor as he tried to fight Laufey off.

“Let go!” he shouted, trying to pull out of Laufey’s grip. “Let me go, you — you …  _frost giant_!”

Laufey stopped, and sharply twisted one of Loki’s horns. Loki howled in pain, clutching at his head.

“I am your sire and your king, and I will not be spoken to like that,” Laufey snarled. “What I may have ignored yesternight I will not ignore now.”

“You are not my king,” Loki hissed, “and you are  _not_  my father.”

Laufey pulled Loki’s head up by the hair, and before he could look away or close his eyes, he saw himself in one of the icy walls. It wasn’t a perfect reflection, but it was clear enough that he could see what was in front of him. He hardly recognised the thin, terrified face that looked back. But even under the blue skin and the red eyes and the dark horns — horns that rivalled the golden ones of his helm in size — and the lines, there was no denying it was him. He was the cursed thing he had spent his childhood hating and wishing to fight, to slay, to rid Yggdrasil of, a _monster_ —

When Laufey realised the fight had gone out of Loki, he released him. Loki slumped to the floor. “No …” he croaked — he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the horror that he was. His blackened nails scraped grooves in the floor as he clenched his fists. “I am Odinson….” Of course he was — he had proved his worth as Odin’s son time and time over. He could think of a thousand reasons why he was the Allfather’s son. Odin had claimed him, had given him his name, had placed him into the line of inheritance, and for the Norns’ sakes, he had grown up a prince of Asgard; that was something that didn’t happen to frost giants. He had waged war for him, killed for him, had been rewarded …

“The name of Odinson is a lie,” Laufey admonished.

“No,” Loki said, the growl coming back into his own voice. He forced himself to face Laufey. “My father is Odin Bórsson — the Allfather, Ruler of the Æsir, Protector and Warden of the Nine Realms, and High Lord of Yggdrasil. And you … all you are is a savage who calls himself the king of a dying, frozen rock.” Tendrils of green magic snaked between his fingers, hissing against the icy floor.

Laufey bore his teeth.

“I — am not — _your son_. I am Loki of Asgard! _I am Æsir!_ ”

Loki flung the last of his magic at Laufey. Laufey’s guards conjured shields of ice, and Loki hissed when the magic dissipated, completely harmless against them. He scooped up the dagger he had dropped, but the thing was nothing more than a pinprick now. He slashed at the guards as they advanced, but it was knocked from his hand, and it spun into a dark corner of the room. Loki was tackled to the ground, thrashing and screaming in rage, but he was too frightened, confused, and tired to put up much of a fight. Eventually he stilled, heaving for breath through the crushing emotion.

Laufey towered over him, eyes narrow. “You will not leave this room until I am shown some respect.”

“Be prepared for a long wait then,” Loki sneered, lifting his head, “because you deserve _none_.”

Laufey appeared unimpressed. “Do not bring him any sustenance; if he values his life, he should bend.”

The guards released him and, with Laufey heading them, went to the door. Loki sat up, wincing as it slammed shut. He heard the bolt slide across the outside as he flung himself at the door, scrabbling and ramming his shoulder against the frosted metal.

“Savage!” he bellowed, and the hinges groaned under the blows. “Monster! Son of a _fucking whore_!”

He was met with silence.

Eventually, his vicious rage and temper closed back in on itself, and he simmered. He was too proud to call out insults like a child … like Thor.

Thor….

The thought of him was a punch in the gut. Loki sank to the floor and shifted back to his Æsir skin, too miserable to care about the cold that cut into him like a knife, nor how dangerously close his unguarded shoulder was to the metal door. He hugged himself, shivering and fighting back the pain that threatened to tear him apart. His thoughts shifted from Thor to his father. How could his father — no, he did not deserve to be called ‘Father’ — have left him here as if he was nothing? Like he was something to be given away as a bargaining chip?

Anger stabbed at him again, but this time it was towards his f— Odin. _Odin_ had lied to him. _Odin_ had never loved him as he had Thor, and he hated how he could finally put a reason to the long asked question. _Odin_ wouldn’t be coming back. All _Odin_ cared about was peace; when the jötnar had broken into the Vault — albeit at his invite — all _Odin_ could do was bleat stupidly to Thor about how it was vital the peace be kept. All _Odin_ could do when he had come to Jötunheimr to retrieve his wayward son on his foolish endeavour was to give Loki to the realm as a peace offering. Like he was nothing to the Allfather.

“How could you love me?” Loki laughed bitterly to himself under his breath. “How could you have ever claimed to have loved the monster?” No, whatever words of love Odin had offered him over the centuries were nothing but air. He had only loved his perfect son Thor. It was golden Thor who could do no wrong and who was adored by the masses, and it was Loki who was cast into his shadow. It was Thor who was strong and noble, undefeatable and always in the right; and it was Loki who was sly and thin, ridiculed for his love of magic, and pushed away because he looked so … non-Æsir.

Loki’s eyes narrowed, his want for Thor vanishing. He looked at his shaking hands, imagined them blue, marked with arrowheads, the skin rough like rock. Maybe Laufey’s orders not to give him food were a blessing in disguise, one that he could follow until he starved to death … or he could kill himself here and now with the dagger.

He pulled his knees closer to his chest, wiping away snot and tears. No, suicide was a drastic option. He would endure. He would ensure this realm would be burnt to a cinder before he died, and then for good measure extract revenge against Odin, if only to combat his grief for what he had lost at the mere snap of his fingers.

* * *

#

* * *

Several hours later, the door hinges creaked. Loki looked up sharply as the small jötunn from earlier slipped into the room. Loki eyed him suspiciously, pulling the furs tighter around himself. The boy closed the door and looked around, freezing for a heartbeat as he spotted Loki. He took a deep breath before he padded towards him. His black hair was long, the plait it was tied into reaching his lower back. Furs covered the lower half of his body, stretching to his calves and decorated with dark patterns. Judging from his height — even though he was a good half-foot taller than Loki was in his Æsir skin — he thought he couldn’t be more than five or six centuries old. There was a bundle of fur and metal in his arms, held tightly to his chest.

The boy cleared his throat. “You’re my brother, aren’t you?”

Loki didn’t answer.

“Because if you _are_ my brother,” the boy continued, climbing onto the bed somewhat skittishly, “why aren’t you jötunn right now? I brought you some more clothes ‘cause the ones you’re wearing are ripped.”

“I’m not jötunn,” Loki said in a cracked voice. His denial was the single comfort he had left.

The boy pushed the bundle behind him to the end of the bed. His brow crinkled in confusion. “I saw you before and you were jötunn. Why don’t you want to be yourself?”

Loki swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty. “Because the frost giants are savage, and it is right to kill them.”

The boy’s breath hitched. “‘Frost giants’?” he finally asked, a breath of attempted laughter present in his voice to brush off Loki’s words. “That’s rude.”

Loki looked him up and down flatly.

“I, um, I’m Helblindi … or … or just ‘Blindi … if you want,” the boy continued, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. He fidgeted. “You’re Loki … aren’t you?”

Instead of answering, Loki brought a question of his own: “Does Laufey know you’re here?”

Helblindi’s brow furrowed even more at the way Loki addressed the king. He looked away, scratched at his neck, and said slowly, “No, Sire doesn’t know.”

Loki thought that the boy needed to try his hand at lying far more often; he was hopeless at it. But that was clever of the king — getting Helblindi to do his dirty work so he would open up more. Now Loki knew the game Laufey was playing, he pressed himself all the way to the bed’s headboard in an effort to stay as far from Helblindi as possible.

Helblindi saw the sudden distrust, and instantly his face fell. Loki felt strangely guilty then, but he hardened his heart. No, this boy was a frost giant; he was not to be trusted, especially since he was Laufey’s agent, his son, Loki’s …

 _Norns_ , he thought. _Why this? Why_ me _?_

“Do you have any more siblings?” Loki asked slowly. He had to know about the other siblings Laufey had mentioned, he _had_ to….

“Bý, well, Býleistr’s his full name.” Helblindi seemed to be relaxing more as the conversation went on. “He’s the oldest, and he’s going to be king after Sire … unless you challenge him and win in _hólmganga_ , or I do.”

One sibling. Only one more. Loki would have laughed in relief if he hadn’t been so terrified he felt physically sick. So he turned his attention elsewhere. “Why does Laufey want me so much?”

Helblindi said, confused, “Because he’s our sire.”

Loki had not the heart to correct him, and he hated himself for it. Damn Laufey, Helblindi was getting to him. He stood, jumping down to the floor and striding angrily as far away from Helblindi as possible in an effort to escape his sib—

No, he had no siblings here. Not Helblindi, not … _Býleistr_ , or whatever the fuck his name was.

Loki put his back to a wall and slid down it, hugging himself. His teeth chattered despite his best efforts.

“Why don’t you just shift?” Helblindi asked, head cocked to the side as he followed Loki. “You won’t be cold anymore.”

“I’ve already told you,” Loki said, angry now. “I’m not jötunn.”

“But isn’t it really cold? Not changing your skin isn’t going to change your blood,” Helblindi said.

Loki didn’t care. He could pretend forever, had apparently succeeded at doing so for over a thousand years to such an extent he’d even fooled himself. He could do so again. “I don’t give a damn.”

Helblindi froze at Loki’s vicious tone. “But I like your jötunn skin,” he said quietly, “and I … I don’t want to see you cold like this.”

It hardly changed the fact Loki hated it, that it wasn’t _him_ — this skin, this Æsir skin, was him. But it was indeed freezing.

Helblindi’s eyes were brimming with worry, and … Loki faltered. Worry …?

“Loki,” Helblindi pleaded. “Change.”

But there was something else in his voice, something that was bitten back, and Loki had to think for a few seconds before he identified it.

Fear.

Helblindi was scared of him. But why?

His will broke. It was too bloody cold.

Loki closed his eyes and shifted, if only not to watch his body become something so alien, and let the thing in his mind go. Instantly he felt better, more comfortable with the temperature. He despised it.

“Oh! You have your horns already?” Loki’s eyes snapped open as Helblindi jumped onto his lap, his own eyes wide as he looked to the horns. “Are they heavy? Do they hurt? Bý said they hurt when they first grow, but I don’t know if he was just teasing me or not. Can I touch them?”

“What?” Loki asked, dumbstruck. He was honestly more preoccupied with how small Helblindi seemed to have become, and the sudden shift to his vision he had refused to really notice before. Everything was filtered differently; the room, which was in near darkness, was lighter, and there was a much deeper contrast between light and shadow. The facets and cracks lining the wall stood in a sharper relief, imperfections that he had been unable to spot before. It was a startling change to say the least.

Helblindi’s voice brought him back to the present: “Can I touch them?”

“No,” Loki snapped. He felt uncomfortable, and he wished he hadn’t shifted. Sudden newfound dysphoria was starting to awaken in his mind.

 _Shut up, shut up, just_ stop talking about them _—_

“Aw, but _why_? They _do_ hurt, don’t they? I didn’t know if Bý was lying or not about them hurting when they first emerge, but I guess he was right.” Helblindi pouted and rested his chin on a fist. “Dam said Bý was just making it up, but I wasn’t sure because he doesn’t—”

But Loki had stopped listening. Helblindi seemed to notice his slight twitch, for he froze, his mouth half-open to deliver his next words.

Laufey had said that word to Loki last night as well — dam. _Your_ dam … Your mother….

“What’s her name?” Loki asked. But no, he didn’t care, he didn’t ca—

“Fárbauti,” Helblindi said simply. “She’s the most kindest and wonderful dam ever.”

“Is she?” Loki said. His throat was bone dry.

Helblindi didn’t notice, because he continued on, “When she heard you were here and still alive, she broke the rules and ran through the castle to see for herself.”

“Stop—”

“But Sire said she couldn’t come to see you yet because you were reacting badly.”

“Stop it—”

“Well, no, he actually said it wasn’t a good ide—”

“ _Shut — up!_ ”

Helblindi yelped with surprise as Loki stood up and started to pace, hand to his forehead, and his heart pounding loudly in his chest. His mother … his mother, or dam or whatever, had been overwhelmed with happiness?

 _But no_ , he thought angrily, _Queen Frigga is my mother, not this_ Fárbauti _. I’ve never heard her name, yet Helblindi claims she is my mother, and she … she …_

It was _too much_ —

He tried to run his fingers through his hair, but forgot about the horns and cursed as he rammed his fingertips into them. Sudden white-hot rage shot through him, and he felt like ripping them from his skull for it. When had he become so accepting of the situation? The confusion about his feelings was tearing him to pieces. To whom did he owe his familial allegiances? His old family in Asgard? Or his supposed new one here?

 _Asgard_ , he snapped to himself. _No matter my blood, I am Loki of Asgard._

But did he really want to be associated with Asgard? They didn’t; they had thrown him away, his fa— _Odin_ — his damned name was _Odin_ — had _abandoned_ him.

His head hurt.

“Loki,” Helblindi said, standing up and touching Loki’s arm. Loki snarled, and Helblindi stumbled back, visibly spooked. Loki swallowed the noise at once, quivering with fright at the sound he’d made. That was the second time he’d done it. What was he turning into?

Helblindi was wide-eyed. “Loki?”

“Go,” Loki forced out with a rasp. “Leave…. _Now._ ” He wasn’t in the mood to tolerate the jötunn anymore. He also felt something cold and jagged rippling under his skin like spines. _Ice._

“What did I do?” Helblindi yelped. Fear crept into his voice as he tried to understand what had caused the violent change of mood. “Brother—”

Loki saw red. “I said _go_!” he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips. Flakes of ice, shed from his arms and back, scattered to the floor with sharp _clinks_. Fear, revulsion, and despair flooded him at the sound. And more ice came like a tidal wave. “Get out, get out, _get the fuck out_!”

Helblindi backed away, slipping towards the door and knocking hurriedly upon it. He exited a moment later as Loki fell against the wall, a dry sob wracking him as he shifted back. Hatred towards everything — Laufey, Helblindi, the jötnar, and himself — burnt like a bonfire in his mind. He couldn’t escape his body, and it hurt, his mind clawing at the inside of his skull, the twitching need to run from himself. But he couldn’t….

“I want to go home,” he whispered, pathetic as a child. He gave a hacking cough, shivering. “I want to go home….” He was just glad no one was there to tell him he already was.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki had quickly noticed that his and the jötnar sleeping patterns were different. They were nocturnal creatures, which meant that whilst the castle was asleep, he had been left in relative peace. That was, when his mind hadn’t been a mess of half-formed thoughts born from the situation and his new feelings of doubt, dysphoria, and self-loathing. He sat in his Æsir skin and thought of increasingly wilder ways he could escape Jötunheimr without Bifröst. He also ruled out Ævaleysar — the very same portals he had employed to get the jötnar to the Weapons Vault — because, he was sure, Laufey had taken steps to ensure they couldn’t be breeched through either collapsing the sites or spelling those which Asgard hadn’t already closed. Undoing immensely powerful spells like that was beyond Loki’s expertise.

Three nights after his first confrontation with Laufey and encounter with Helblindi, he started to get hungry. He knew from experience he didn’t _need_ to eat every day before he got uncomfortable, but his mood deteriorated the longer the time went by between meals, made all the worse by his insomnia. Laufey came back every night to confront him, and every time he did so, Loki had been less than welcoming. He was cold, exhausted, and ravenous by the week’s end. But still he refused to bend to Laufey’s demands of respect. Indeed, he called him so many foul things his horns had been yanked on relentlessly when he was forced to take his jötunn form for Laufey’s pleasing. The pain, and the forced change to his body, made Loki all the more stubborn.

But as time went by and one week became two, Loki had become a nightmare to deal with. The conditions had forced him to remain in his jötunn form, as he’d grown too weak to fight off the cold. He had finally pulled on the _kjilt_ Helblindi had left him too — his trousers had fallen to tatters for the strain of his constantly changing size, and he’d rather wear the jötunn clothing than tolerate the humiliation brought by the rip in the seat of his trousers one more day. The furs of the _kjilt_ were fine, but, Loki noted with frustration, they were just as thin as the others were, and offered minimal warmth for his Æsir skin. The fur and leather, backed with heavy rings of mail, came to his knees and was held up by a thick belt. Underneath the initial, well, _loincloth_ , his modesty was kept by an elastic material that hugged his skin, the sides again reinforced with mail to his knees. He felt naked wearing only that — so different it was to the many-layered clothes he’d worn in Asgard.

He hated every second of it, looking at himself, seeing the hideous colour of his skin — and Norns, when he had seen that his blood was a metallic silver-blue when he’d ripped his nails into his arm that one time— and always noticing the weight of the new bone upon his head. Every day, he lived in the hope he would hear from Asgard, but every night his hopes went unanswered; it was these betrayals that added all the more to his vile moods.

The chambers he was in had become wrecked with his constant stormings and losses of temper. He had shredded the furs and pillows on the bed, thrown the furniture against the walls, and clawed at the artwork with his ever lengthening nails — but there was no other word for them but claws now — that had been so carefully carved there until the original works could no longer be discerned. He had also caught himself scraping the skin around the bases of his horns against the bedposts. It was incredibly itchy, and the sharp edges provided much sought relief. His self-hatred only grew every time it happened.

At around ten days, or nights or however the time was measured here, the pain from his empty stomach finally faded, and he learnt to ignore the rumbles as his body cried out for food. He became lethargic and spent much of his time sleeping. But even in sleep, misery gripped him. He had difficultly holding the ripped furs around his shoulders, had difficultly to find the strength to get up from the bed, and had subsided into unresponsive silence whenever someone, usually Laufey, came in.

“Are you ready?” Laufey had asked every time, and every time Loki had either responded crassly, rudely, or lay in silence. But it was only after Laufey had given up for the night that Loki let his emotions trickle out, tears falling into his hair and horns.

_What a monster you are._

_Laufeyson._

He wanted to curl up and die.

But Laufey had kept pushing because, he knew just as well as Loki did, he would be close to breaking if he so valued his life. And Loki did. Despite all the misery and pain he had been put through, despite the dysphoria that ate at him around the clock, and despite the long stretches of utter hopelessness, he found he wanted to live.

And so, after eighteen nights without food, after being lowered to licking at the walls for water, after falling into restless days with the knowledge Asgard had abandoned him for another turn of the realm, and wanting to have the chance to get back his normal skin, Loki finally knelt before Laufey-King.

Down on one knee with a hand to his heart, Loki said to Laufey’s knees, “I apologise for my behaviour over the past two and a half weeks.”

“And will you show me such disrespect again?” Laufey asked, shifting his weight and crossing his arms.

“No … my king.” Loki said it so quietly he was sure Laufey hadn’t heard. Frigga had always said his pride would get the better of him one day, and it had. He was drained, both physically and emotionally, and it was a great difficulty for him to do this and accept Laufey’s help.

“Will you obey?”

“… Yes.”

“You will join us for the dawn meal,” Laufey rumbled after a few seconds of contemplation

 _Of course_ , Loki thought as he forced himself to his feet, shoulders hunched, and eyes fixed firmly on the floor, _it’s just after dawn, so they’re eating now._

He followed Laufey: a silent, angry presence behind the king. The guards folded around the two of them as they left the room. Laufey looked back to Loki; he still refused to lift his eyes any higher than the backs of his calves.

“Do the Asgardians sulk as long as you?” Laufey asked.

Loki twitched. To address the Æsir as _Asgardians_ was the equivalent to addressing the jötnar as _frost giants_ , he had concluded, gauging by Helblindi’s reaction — disrespectful and ignorant of proper names and titles.

“I’ve always had a special talent for it,” he said after a little.

“I can’t imagine,” Laufey said sarcastically. Loki wanted to hit him.

Apart from this brief exchange, they walked through the castle silently, and Loki noticed, somewhat pleased about it, they hadn’t met a single soul. He forced himself to keep up behind the king, but it was a taxing effort. He nearly stumbled several times he was tripping over his feet so much, and it was a relief when Laufey finally came to a stop before he pushed open a heavy set of doors. Loki tried to make himself as small as possible as he stepped across the threshold, heart pounding as fast as a rabbit’s.

The room beyond was open and airy and not what Loki had been expecting at all, that being some dank, dark hole. Despite himself, he lifted his eyes and looked around. The vaulted ceiling was an elaborate piece of architecture and, what would have been an indiscernible mess to his Æsir eyes for the brightness of the ice, he could see carved patterns and urnes knotwork. Windows fitted with clear ice looked out onto the realm’s two moons. Underneath was a long table situated on a dais.

“Loki!” Helblindi fought his way through the guards and threw his arms around Loki’s midriff. Loki flinched back. “You’re here, and you’re jötunn!” Helblindi crowed. “Do you like it yet? Because I do.”

A scraping chair sounded at the top of the room, and Loki looked up in time to see a curtain of black hair disappearing through a door to an antechamber that closed with a _bang!_

Helblindi’s face dropped. “Where’s Dam going?”

Laufey said, with a gentleness that surprised Loki, “These past few nights have been difficult for her; leave her be, little one.”

But Loki’s chest ached. His blatant refusals at his parentage by Laufey had subsided greatly over the past few nights because he was too miserable to protest much. With all that time to sit and think, all his mind was able to turn to was Laufey. Every time Laufey had come up in Loki’s thoughts, he had crossed to the wall where the king had dragged him and looked into the reflection there, searching for any signs of a connection: a desperate attempt to deny the truth. They shared the same thin lips, Loki thought, and the prominent cheekbones, and perhaps they even had the same shade of red eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. As he had determined from Helblindi’s story and Laufey’s continuous talk of the lines of his House, Loki had seen his matched Laufey’s and Helblindi’s perfectly. The realisation had hurt him deeply. He’d had hope that the whole thing was a mistake, but there was no denying it after that. And that meant that the she-jötunn that had left, the one Helblindi had called Dam …

Hurt flared in his chest. She’d _left_. He wasn’t even sure why it bothered him so much. He turned his attention to the top table, the hunger pangs of his stomach now an acute worry.

“Come.”

Laufey’s tight grip on his arm was unnecessary as Loki was so hungry and defeated he would have sat down happily. He darted a glance, drowning out Helblindi’s meaningless chatter to see another jötunn at the table. Judging from the heritage lines, this had to be Býleistr, because, Loki thought, he looked far too young to be a brother to Laufey. He was tall and powerfully built, even for the jötnar. They had the same sort of hair, Loki thought, which was cut just as short as his own, but otherwise he couldn’t see a resemblance. Overall, Býleistr looked like Laufey. He was also the only other horned jötunn Loki had seen. Was it some sort of — his throat stuck at the thought — … _family_ trait?

“Bý look, it’s Loki,” Helblindi said to the jötunn. “I know you—”

“I know who he is,” Býleistr said coldly, crossing his arms.

Helblindi stared, apparently dumbstruck. “But—”

“And what an absolutely _stunning_ pleasure to meet you too,” Loki said over the top of Helblindi. He was glad for the hostility instead of disappointed by it. He sneered.

“No!” Helblindi said. “Bý, Loki, please, it’s not supposed to—”

“Enough,” Laufey said to them all, his grip on Loki’s arm now painful.

“Let me go,” Loki said dangerously.

Laufey let him go.

“Loki, can you sit here?” Helblindi said, subdued, and pushed a chair back for Loki. He dropped down into it, glad for something to sit on — he thought his legs were going to collapse, otherwise. “I think you’re gonna like the food a lot.”

Loki did nothing. He didn’t want to be here, and his body language was clear in that respect. His shoulders were hunched, and he rested his forehead on crossed arms; the horns were incredibly uncomfortable to put on the table. He moved again when food was brought. His head snapped up when the clack of plates rang along the table. He tilted his head to the side, regarding the food in front of him.

If he had to describe every dish there with a single word, that word would have been _raw_. Cold meats which looked completely frozen lay artfully on the dishes, and there were no vegetables, fruits, or grains. A servant came to Loki’s right, and he jumped back, alarmed, until he realised the jötunn was filling his goblet with a deep red drink. Wine of some sort?

“Try this one,” Helblindi said, pulling a platter of meat towards him and putting some onto Loki’s plate. “This one’s my favourite.”

It sat unappealingly in front of him. What was he, a dog? Raw meat held no interest to him. But … Loki swallowed thickly.

_Just eat it. You need your strength._

_And if it’s poisoned?_ But the thought was dismissed as Helblindi took a handful from the same plate and ate it happily enough.

He looked around to see if there was some sort of cutlery, but there was nothing. Helblindi had just eaten with his fingers, and the others were doing the same. Loki picked a cut up and, fully expecting to have to gag it down, took a cautious bite. His teeth easily crunched through the half-frozen meat, and he could distinguish some sort of marinade that it had been steeped in. It was … good. Oddly good; the rawness was something he found he enjoyed.

Then he started wolfing the rest down, and he cleaned not only his plate, but the serving platter before pulling another towards him and demolishing it. He felt rather than saw Laufey watching him with a hawk-like eye as he gulped down the drink, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at that moment. He knew too he shouldn’t be eating this much this quickly, that he should have been settling for softer foods that were easier to stomach, but his body didn’t seem to protest. _Evolution_ , Loki thought in the back of his mind. It made sense: If the jötnar were to wander the icy tundras for days on end without food, they’d need to be able to stomach anything edible they came across.

“I told you you’d like it,” Helblindi said, grinning as he ate his own food.

“He’s probably just hungry,” Býleistr said, picking at his plate. “He’d eat it even if it was infested.”

Loki snarled quietly.

“How long has it been since he’s eaten, Sire?” Býleistr drawled on as if Loki had done nothing. “Seventeen nights?”

“Eighteen,” Laufey corrected, a frown pulling at his face.

Loki started on another plate just as he was beginning to feel nearly full. He finished it before he sat back in his seat, chewing the final mouthful slowly to savour the taste. Helblindi was right — all the food was good. But he would never admit it.

Nevertheless, at the heart of it, he’d done what he came here to do. He stood, pushing the chair back.

“Loki?” Helblindi said, jumping to his own feet and putting his hands on Loki’s navel to stop him. “Where’re you going?”

“To where Lau—” Laufey snarled, “—the _king_ wants me — locked up in the room.”

“You will stay,” Laufey said.

Loki threw him a filthy look, but he didn’t make any effort to move. He looked at the table and curled his hands into fists.

“Look at me.”

Loki twitched but did as he was told, scowling at the king as he too stood.

“Now leave us,” Laufey instructed of the servants and guards by the door. They bowed and left, closing the door behind them. The sound echoed horribly in the chamber.

Laufey circled around the back of Loki slowly, looking at every inch of his body. Loki had to fight down the urge to twitch or flinch. He wanted to run, wanted to turn around and claw Laufey as he passed so close behind him he failed to entirely supress his shudder. The self-consciousness he felt at the scrutiny was unbearable. How long would it take for him to turn and dig Laufey’s eyes out? Could he do it before the frost giant had the chance to react?

“You’re underweight,” Laufey said.

Loki hissed, “Generally, when one is starved for nearly three weeks, they don’t look so well.”

“You will watch your tongue.”

Loki would have dearly liked to snap back that he couldn’t help but be snarky, but he grit his teeth and swallowed the words at the last second. He didn’t need to be deprived of food for another extended period of time, especially for trivial talk-back. Instead, he said with every bite of loathing he judged he could get away with, “Yes … my king.”

Laufey twitched. Loki bore his teeth.

Laufey grabbed his shoulder, and Loki did snarl this time, but Laufey ignored him, squeezing it.

“You’re strong, nevertheless,” he said quietly. “Good.” Here, his hand moved to Loki’s horns, and Loki pulled away slightly. However, Laufey merely held them, running his thumb over the ridges. “These are fine horns…. Much finer than I have ever seen….”

Loki said nothing.

Laufey released him, and Loki turned his head away.

“In … _Asgard_ ,” Laufey said, his voice light and casual in a way Loki hadn’t heard before, “do you have a mate?”

“Isn’t a thousand years a bit young to be thinking of marrying?” Loki asked sourly. “No.” There was no point in lying; this was one situation he did not need to overcomplicate. No … he had to pick his battles carefully.

“Good.”

“Why is it so important?” Loki asked. “I thought you didn’t care — you’ve already happily taken my world away.”

“It’s amusing you saying that, seeing as how you’re bringing your own misery down on yourself,” Býleistr said suddenly.

Loki’s temper flared. He lunged at Býleistr, but Laufey caught him around the middle.

“You _bastard_ ,” Loki spat at Býleistr. “‘I’m bringing my misery on myself’? How _dare_ y—?”

Laufey had had enough by then. He grabbed one of Loki’s horns by the tip and jerked his arm down. Loki collapsed onto the table, words choked off in pain.

Býleistr laughed. “Your horns haven’t set yet? How _pitiful_ …. You really are just a child, aren’t you?”

Loki grit his teeth, rage simmering in his heart.

Laufey then said, almost casually, “They have been supressed for too long to have set yet; they will soon, though.”

Loki glared at him. “Good, I don’t need you yanking on them like some pertinacious—”

Laufey’s hand tightened on his horn, and Loki froze at once, quivering.

“Better,” the king said. “Now _behave_.” He let go after a few seconds, and Loki stepped out of arm’s reach.

He was seething at the way Laufey had spoken to him — how from the first day he had _scolded_ him like a parent their misbehaving child. Then, suddenly, a realisation dawned on him. _He thinks I always knew_ , Loki thought dully. _He thinks I always knew of my blood._ He didn’t feel inclined to correct Laufey’s assumption.

“Loki,” Helblindi said, taking his hand and squeezing it. He was shuddering, and Loki thought his face was paler. “Please stop it. I don’t want to see you fighting with Sire, or Bý.”

Loki’s breaths were long and deep as he forced his heart to calm. He pulled his hand away from Helblindi’s.

“Your pride needs to know its limits,” Laufey said.

“So I’ve been told before,” Loki said flatly. “My mother has told me such. My real mother — Queen Frigga of Asgard.”

“She is not your dam,” Laufey said, eyes darkening. Býleistr frowned.

“She’s as good as,” Loki snapped.

“But the fact remains that she did not birth you,” Laufey said.

“So?” Loki asked. He jabbed his finger at the antechamber door. “The slattern who did doesn’t have the grit to look at me.”

Helblindi exclaimed furiously, “Dam’s not!” at the same time Laufey said, “How _dare_ you.” His every word was poison, but Loki didn’t give a damn about the threat. If Laufey wanted to strike him, he wasn’t averse to it. A part of him dared Laufey to do it.

Silence fell then, a silence that stretched for so long Loki wanted to sit down, but that damn stubborn pride wouldn’t let him.

Then, after a few heartbeats, Laufey said quietly, “You are a fine man, or will be when you put some more weight on. You have deep heritage lines and the horns of the Royal House. You’re one of the _h_ _amramr_ , and you’re attractive. You’re my blood, so your brood will be strong when you mate.”

Loki froze. “Is that all I am to you?” he whispered. “A trivial object? Something to keep your bloodline alive?” He opened his hands and slammed them onto the table, his claws screeching against the flint top as he glared at Laufey. “I am not _mating_. I will not pass this despicable blood to another, even if I could find a woman willing to lie with the thing that I am. Is that the reason why you took me back — to _breed_ me?”

“Loki,” Býleistr said in warning.

Laufey said, “You think of me so poorly. This is what is expected of you, and you will find many willing to bear your children. You are a prime example of jötunn blood.”

“I don’t _want_ to be a ‘prime example’!” Loki yelled, inwardly cringed at how childish it sounded.

“You do not know the gifts you have been given to you by your dam and me.”

“Gifts in the form of the _beast_ that I am? If you want grandchildren, get _them_ to give them to you,” Loki spat, jabbing his finger at Býleistr and Helblindi. “ _My king_.”

He stormed to the door and wrenched it open. The guards stood alert outside, turning sharply to face him. Loki glared at them so marvellously they made no further move to stop him.

“Loki,” Laufey said lowly.

“Don’t you dare say my name,” he said, whirling around in the doorway and jabbing a finger at the king. “I am not your son, and nothing you or anyone else can say will make me change my mind.” His gaze flicked to Helblindi. The youngest’s eyes were wide, and Loki, not feeling guilty in the slightest, slammed the door behind him. It banged off the frame.

“Leave him,” Laufey commanded. He pointed to one of the guards looking back in. “Follow him, but keep your distance. Make sure he doesn’t go too far. I do not need my second born vanishing again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to clarify something about Loki's age. I did some maths:
> 
> 82/5000 = 0.0164 (info from the highest world lifespan average divided by the average lifespan Loki said in TDW).  
> 2011 - 965 = 1,046 (the first Thor movie had the date of the prologue at 965 AD, which means Loki, in 2011, was 1,046 years of age if he was born in that year of the war, which is what I'm assuming.)  
> 0.0164*1,046 = 17.1544.
> 
> So Loki is about 17, Býleistr's about 1,300, so he's roughly 21, and Helblindi's about 600, so he's almost 10.


	4. Chapter Three - Fárbauti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 25-11-2015**

It was the only place Loki could think of to go, the closest to home he could get without actually going there. It was a subconscious decision on his part, really, walking through the crumbling castle, concealing himself with glamours and shadows if he heard any jötnar coming towards him along the corridors. Always his heart was loud in his ears until they safely passed, none-the-wiser to his presence. Soon, Loki was winding his way through the broken stone and thick snows of Jötunheimr’s outside environment.

The snow crunched under his feet, and the bite of cold he expected never came. He paused and dug his toes into it, heart pounding with rage. He kicked at the snow and tore off across the courtyard, passing through the open barbican. Outside the castle’s grounds, repairs had been made to the swathe of ground Thor had destroyed; it had been iced over and buried under a layer of snow. Loki skirted around the edge, not trusting it to bear his weight.

The stone arches and overhangs loomed above him, ancient buttresses belonging to the skeletons of buildings straddled the land. The city surrounding the castle sat low and dark against the ice; Loki could see movement between the buildings, and he looked away bitterly, continuing along the ruined road. He cast a glamour to hide the horns from sight — just in case someone looked towards him. Only royalty had horns, he had deduced. He didn’t want any more attention than was absolutely necessary.

He made quick progress to the Bifröst site, jumping over newly opened cracks and crevasses, hopping over ridges, overturned boulders, and chunks of rock that he would have had to climb over were he still in his Æsir form.

Bifröst’s seal was half-hidden by snow, and Loki stood at its centre, hands clenched into fists. “Heimdallr, I know you dislike me — Hel, you probably hate me,” he said lowly in the Æsir tongue, turning his gaze skyward, “but please, open Bifröst. Let me come home.”

But as the silence stretched on and on with no sign of the Bridge opening, he stifled curses jumping to his tongue, fighting to keep his breathing calm. “Heimdallr?” The Gatekeeper’s name was thick in his mouth.

He couldn’t shift back to his Æsir skin, no matter how much he wanted to. The cold would get the better of him in no time, and he had no desire to ask for Heimdallr with the fucking _kjilt_ falling around his fucking ankles and he hated this Norns thrice-be- _fucking_ - _damned_ situation.

“I command you to open the Bridge _now_!” he bellowed. “I don’t care about Odin’s bloody peace and want nothing to do with Laufey’s oh-so-grand plans for me. I just want to come home and get away from these _monsters_.” His chest was heaving, and he started to pace in an attempt to calm himself, to work down the rage bubbling inside after everything that had been said and done since Thor’s failed coronation. Every few seconds he looked to the sky, each time his hope faltering when the rainbow colours of the Bridge refused to appear. “Heimdallr!”

Still nothing.

Loki screamed and blasted the edge of the cliff with a powerful punch of magic. His newly regained reserves from the meal were sapped away as he destroyed the cliff.

“Odin, if you are sitting upon Hlidskjalf watching me, answer me this — why did you never tell me _anything_?! That I’m jötunn, that I’m monstrous, that I’m …?” Loki sank to his knees, watching the last of the Bifröst site crumble away into the abyss beyond, and felt a dim satisfaction as he heard the rock crash at the bottom. “That I’m Laufey’s _son_? Why did you take me? Was that for your precious peace too? Or if you just wanted to torment me, you’ve done a damn fine job of it….” He wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. “You stole me, didn’t you? What did I ever do as a babe to warrant this? Or was my existence enough to condemn me?”

He looked to his hands, trembling as he swallowed thickly. He felt calmer after the outrage, despite the tears the dripped down his nose. He felt … empty. Numb.

“You could have told me _something_ …. _Anything…._ Why didn’t you …?”

When the sun broke the horizon an hour later, he turned to face the castle, heart heavy. He had no better place to go.

“When I get back, and I swear that I will return to Asgard one day,” he said, “I will make you regret taking your stolen relic. I swear it.” He spat on the ground. “I hate you, Allfather. I hate you.”

He trudged back on leaden legs, concentrating on slowing his breathing and drying his eyes. He pulled up short when he saw the guard standing in the courtyard Thor had walked them into. It was one of the guards that had stood outside the dining room. Loki narrowed his eyes, releasing the glamour on his horns.

“Loki-Prince,” the guard said, bowing his head slightly. “I am to escort you back to your chambers so you may rest for the day.”

“I can make my own way back,” Loki said in a clipped voice.

“Permanent quarters have been arranged, Your Highness.”

Loki arched an eyebrow. What was Laufey thinking; did he think of it as a kindness to treat him better after abusing him for the better part of a month?

_And as if I would want them._

“I would think Laufey would want me to return to where I was staying before,” Loki prodded. “Why have his orders changed?”

“They are not my king’s orders — these are the wishes of the queen-consort.”

Loki froze. His heart was suddenly loud in his ears, and he felt positively sick.

“If you please follow me, Your Highness,” the guard said after a few seconds of silence, bowing his head once again before turning to walk away.

Loki followed him, his steps light and cautious. In all honesty, he was expecting this to be a test of some kind. Did Laufey want to see how much control he had over him? No doubt he testing the waters as much as Loki was. His mind was turning over the possibilities as they continued walking and, after a few minutes, they arrived in the royal wing of the castle. They passed through the solar — a huge room adorned with finery, several couches, and a low central table stacked with everything from board games to sculptures and documents — and came to a large open area. It was a circular arrangement, half-a-dozen doors interspersed equally along the outer rim of the huge room. The guard crossed to the second door on the right and opened it.

Loki padded inside, eyes adjusting to the low light. He halted.

It was big, that much was to say, but there was a staleness to the air; the room hadn’t been used in a long time, if ever. It seemed to have been rearranged not much earlier — scrape marks on the floor indicated the recent moving of furniture. The walls, like the rest of the castle, were made of ice-coated rock, but they lacked any sort of art or decoration. A bed, far grander than the one in the other room, was pushed against the centre of the right wall upon a dais, thick furs and fluffed cushions arranged atop it. A rug, seemly made from an ice bear pelt, was at the foot of the bed, and to the side of the room was a table and set of chairs. Two high bay windows covered with fur throws were set into the wall on each side of the bed. One wall held empty shelves. Two closed doors were opposite the bed, these made of silver-black metal engraved in bas-relief knotwork. Overall, the room was sparse and cold to say the least, and it lacked anything that was close to the chambers Loki had had in Valaskjalf. It was a husk, devoid of life, waiting for an occupant.

Loki swallowed. “Leave me.” At least his voice didn’t betray the flood of emotion intent on choking him.

The guard bowed for a third time, and when the door closed, Loki jumped into action. He prowled the perimeter of the room, searching for anything that could potentially prove a danger. He didn’t find any kind of hidden traps in the walls, no runes or workings or eye slits to spy on him, no passages, nothing. He stripped the bed of its furs and cushions, slashed the mattress, overturned the table and chairs, shook out the rug. It yielded nothing. The other doors led to a washroom, the dominating feature of which was a trough that ran along an entire wall filled with running water, and the other a dressing room. Loki looked behind the towering obsidian mirror, something that would have been worth an utter fortune, but, again, found nothing.

Finally, when he had exhausted himself by methodically tearing up the room, Loki crossed to the rumpled bed, running his hand across the furs. Once, he would have paid a hefty sum of gold for furs of this quality. He sunk onto them, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He wove a spell then, clouding the rooms against Asgard’s sight. It was a complex thing, something designed for an extended period of use rather than those of a few hours he’d often employed when realm-walking. It seeped into the stonework, sinking its claws in deeply.

Then, there was nothing left. The spell had drained his reserves of magic; sleep tugged at him. He shifted to his Æsir skin and wrapped the closest furs around himself as tightly as possible. He bit his lip bloody to keep his unbidden sobs locked deep in his chest.

* * *

#

* * *

It was, what felt to him, many hours later that Loki stirred from a sleep he didn’t remember falling in to. His mind was still groggy, but he had the distinct feeling someone was watching him.

_Laufey._

He sat up quickly, pulling the furs tighter around himself to hide his current state. He looked around slowly, having a hard time discerning anything in the room such was his lost night vision.

Loki flicked his wrist, and a weirlight flared into existence. He threw it to the centre of the room where it pulsed quietly. Loki kept searching, uncertainty trickling through him. Laufey would have shown himself by now; he wouldn’t have held back to watch what Loki was doing.

It was the subtlest shift in the corner of his eye that got his attention. His head snapped around, neck craning to try to find who had moved in the shadows. Yes, there was someone there — Loki could see a smudged figure, barely discernible to his less-adapted Æsir eyes. It wasn’t the king — the jötunn was too slight and short.

“Who are you?” he said, the command ringing through the room. “Show yourself.” He squinted, trying to make the figure out.

It was a woman, he quickly concluded. Hair tumbled loosely to her lower back, the metal woven into it catching the light as she moved slightly more towards him. Loki froze, his eyes widening in realisation as the she-jötunn came fully from the shadows.

She had to have been the queen-consort; it had to have been when she looked so similar to him she could be none other than his mother. But no, Frigga was his mother, not this monster, this _thing_ coming to sit next to him on the bed and reaching for him, a smile gracing the lips and the eyes crinkling at the corners. But that was his face, or a feminine version of it. The same narrow build of her shoulders and hips he also recognised, and they had the same long limbs and hair that held a subtle curl. But her heritage lines were different to his, save for the circular patterns on her forehead, nor did she have horns like he did. Her name rose to the front of his mind like a soap bubble — Fárbauti.

_“She’s the most kindest and wonderful Dam ever.”_

Loki’s breathing hitched, and he scrambled as far away as he could. “Get out,” he said weakly.

She didn’t. He flinched as her rough, calloused fingers touched his face; his magic buzzed pleasantly behind his sternum. It was that of all things that enticed the growl that leapt to his lips, but it sounded pitiful coming from his Æsir throat.

“Loki,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes, unable to explain how her voice was tearing into him, filling the cracks left by Laufey over the past nights, or why her touch felt _so damn good_.

“My boy … my beautiful boy.” She laid her palm on his cheek, and he leant into it despite himself, shifting almost immediately. He hated how he did that all the time now — changing back to the monster whenever someone touched him.

“Get — _out_ ,” he said again, his voice deep and jötunn once more.

Her fingers dug into his cheek for a split second before she pulled her hand back. Loki opened his eyes, looking at her with a hint of trepidation. He didn’t know what to think of this. The rational part of him was telling him this she-jötunn was a stranger, someone who was not to be trusted because of what she was. But some deeper, buried part of him, ached for her. This was the first tenderness he had come across in this Hel, and he wanted it. Moreover, there was something else, something that recognised her as something _more_ …. He needed time to think.

He stood without another word and crossed to the table, refusing to look at her. She moved towards him, but he said, “Don’t.”

She sat back down. He listened to her breathing, surprised at how calm it was when his own was so fast from shock. He peeked at her over his shoulder. She wasn’t looking at him. She was biting her lip and looking towards the wall, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

Questions burst in his mind. Why did she flee from the meal hall? Why did she not spit in disgust when she had found him curled in the furs wearing the guise of something she hated? Why was she being so kind to him? … Why had she allowed him to fall into Odin’s hands?

The door opened, and Loki looked up.

“Fárbauti.”

Loki scowled at Laufey, his lip lifting.

“Loki,” Laufey said flatly. Then, catching Loki by surprise, said, “I trust you had a restful sleep.”

“Somewhat,” he bit back.

Laufey was just who Loki needed to see to shake himself back into reality. This she-jötunn, Fárbauti, his _biological mother_ , was the beloved of Laufey, and there was no further proof needed to her true nature.

She went to the king slowly, looking back at Loki as she stood next to Laufey. She held her hand out for him. “Loki, come.”

He twitched. “Why?”

“Surely you want to eat?” she continued, a smile touching her mouth. “You’ve missed the eventide meal — it is after midnight.”

Loki did not smile back. “I’m not hungry.” He snapped his fingers, and the weirlight blinked out of existence. “Go enjoy your meal,  _Dam_ ,” he said scornfully. “You’ve done so for the past thousand years, have you not?”

Laufey snapped his teeth at him, and Loki jumped back on instinct. His heart quickened.

“Do not speak of what you do not know,” Laufey warned him.

“What?” Loki asked with a sneer. “Did you miss me?”

“We mourned for you.”

“Forgive me for not inclining to believe you.” _You let me be taken by Asgard._

Fárbauti’s brows creased, and her grip tightened on the king’s arm. “Nei, sváss.” Turning to Loki, she said, “Loki, please join us.”

“Why?” He lay on the bed and wrapped the furs around himself. “Get out. I won’t repeat myself.”

Laufey twitched, but Fárbauti gripped his hand all the more tightly. She pulled the king away, and Loki swore she said to him as the door closed, “Have patience; he needs time to accept this.”

Patience and acceptance? Those were two things Loki was not going to give, especially to Laufey, not after what he’d done.

He shifted back to his Æsir skin, and turned over in the furs for a few minutes, trying to get back to sleep as common sense would have wanted him to so late at night. But he found himself unable to drift off. In fact, he felt energised, hardly tired at all. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t sit in here and sulk, but he couldn’t go down to the dining room and eat without losing face.

A knock came on the door a few minutes later, and Loki growled to himself before he rolled out of bed. Hoping to high Hel that it wasn’t either Laufey or Fárbauti, he shifted and wrenched the door open. It wasn’t — it was a servant holding a tray of food. Unlike Loki’s heritage lines, hers were dark and comprised of single lines. Loki was sure there was some sort of meaning behind it, but he hadn’t yet figured it out. Her hair was long and pinned up neatly. She averted her eyes when they met his.

“Your Highness,” she said hurriedly, bowing her head, “Fárbauti-Queen-Consort has bid me to bring you this.”

She proffered the tray. Upon it was a pitcher of water, something greyish that he assumed was bread, and the meat Helblindi had recommended he eat the night before. Loki scowled and, without a word, shut the door in her face. He sat himself on the bed, hands between his knees, and stared blankly at the opposite wall.

* * *

#

* * *

When Loki heard half a week later that there were jötnar coming from all over the realm to Útgarðar at the end of the month to see him claimed as Laufey’s son, he had been far from happy. Helblindi, on the other hand, had been ecstatic when Laufey had announced it to them at the first dawn meal Loki had attended since its undisputedly disastrous predecessor.

“That means feasts, and I’m old enough to attend now!” Helblindi crowed, delighted. At Loki’s lack of a reaction, Helblindi’s excitement faltered a notch. “What’s wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he said tonelessly.

“Loki,” Fárbauti asked gently, “is there anything you would like to arrange for the nights? It is in your honour, after all.”

“Annul the announcement.”

“No,” Laufey said.

Loki sneered.

“Is there anything else?” Fárbauti said, still trying to coax an answer from him.

Býleistr laughed suddenly, and Loki looked at him, not even bothering to hide his intense dislike. “He has no preferences for these celebrations because he has no idea what goes on at such things,” Býleistr said coldly. “He takes pride in knowing things, and he can’t stand it when he doesn’t know what’s happening around him, so what does he do? Feign indifference.”

Loki didn’t respond, but he wanted to. His fingers itched with magic, and he could feel ice crawling under his skin.

“Býleistr, stop,” Fárbauti said heatedly.

Býleistr ignored her. “I can read you far more easily than you think. You refuse to look at anyone, yourself included, because you hate us for what we are. Don’t think I don’t know how you flee back to your chambers and use your gift to shift to Asgardian skin. How you beg for your Gatekeeper and the murderer you call your sire to come and take you from us so you can flee back to your golden citadel. Or even how you cannot speak Jötunn and know nothing of our culture—”

Loki tried his best to not react, but the ice under his skin spoke for him. With a rush and a crack, it coated his shoulders and back before he could even think of how to control it. Býleistr snarled in a challenge.

But Laufey stopped it there. “Leave; both of you.” He stood, hands planted firmly on the tabletop, and glared at them. “I will not tolerate such words at my table. If you are to fight, do it elsewhere.”

Loki didn’t look at him as he flung himself from the table and stalked out. He slammed the door as hard as he could, and was immensely satisfied as he heard the hinges crack. His hate for Býleistr was growing every second of every night. Loki wanted him to hurt. He wanted to grind Býleistr’s skull under his heel, to rip and tear him to pieces so badly he shook.

But that was a shallow revenge. As much as something immediate would satisfy him, Loki wanted to humiliate Býleistr. The only question was how.

Then, as he was making his way to the solar, an idea came to him, and a smile twisted his lips as he shook the ice from his skin. Býleistr had rightly said he knew nothing of what happened at jötunn celebrations; maybe Loki would introduce him to some of the customs found of the feasts of the Æsir. After all, what was some fun? He walked through the solar blindly, then up the stairs and crossed to his chamber door. He opened it on the servant who had brought him food a few nights previously as she was straightening the furs on his bed.

She whirled around when he entered, before sinking into a bow. “Your Highness, I was just cleaning—”

“Can you read the Allspeak?” Loki said.

“Can I re—? Y-yes, I can.”

“Good.” The table he had converted into a desk after shoving it against one of the walls. He snatched up a charcoal stylus and sheet of some sort of thick parchment and began to scribble down a list. The servant hovered by the bed, turning her hands over and over as Loki was writing.

When he finished, he walked over and thrust the list towards her. “I want you to get me these items as quickly and as quietly as possible.”

“But Your Highness, some of these things we cannot get,” she said nervously, her eyes trailing down the list, brow furrowed in confusion. “ _Many_ of these things.”

“Then find the closest substitutes you can. Bring them to me before the first meal tomorrow, and make sure this remains quiet. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” she said, descending into another low bow.

Loki nodded in approval. “Good. Now go.”

* * *

#

* * *

The next few nights passed slowly, and Loki found nothing particularly distinguishing about them. He watched through the windows in his chambers as the castle and surrounding city of Útgarðar underwent huge preparations. Rocks and boulders that had fallen due to Thor’s lightning were moved away, leaving the smaller streets — that he had to confess had no idea existed — bare, and traffic started to move more easily. Ice was being reapplied to many surfaces for protection against any further elemental interference, and it had the extra effect of making the city shine in the silver light of the realm’s moons. Loki could have almost called the city clean.

Loki had also seen several parties of jötnar arrive before Laufey to give him their greetings, all of them diverse in ages, genders, and appearance. Some were dressed in fine furs much like the jötnar Loki had seen in the past, wearing armour more for show than actual combat. Some were covered in swirling paints of greyscale tones. Some wore bones in their hair and tusks around their necks, and some wore finely crafted gold. He’d be lying if he had said they hadn’t fascinated him, despite what they were. But at the same time, they disgusted him.

But soon, Loki couldn’t spend the nights with the doors of his chambers shut to the world outside. Ten nights before the celebrations were to begin, Fárbauti came to his chambers with an entourage.

“Loki,” she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He glared at her, and Fárbauti let him go hesitantly.

“Get out.” His eyes slid towards the four jötnar — three male and one female — who accompanied Fárbauti. The she-jötunn servant looked away sharply, and Loki could have sworn there was a flash of fear in her eyes.

“Loki, these celebrations will be happening, and we must all prepare,” Fárbauti said. “The servants will be quick with their work.”

Loki was still for half a second before he grudgingly rose, crossing to and standing stiffly on the spot Fárbauti indicated.

The jötnar swooped upon him and set to work at once.

“Three bands,” one muttered as he touched three separate spots on each horn. The jötunn wrapped them in ice, and just as quickly took them away and set them aside.

 _Three bands for what?_ Loki wanted to ask, but he quelled the urge.

The jötnar, as Fárbauti had promised, finished their work quickly. They did it in near silence, measuring his waist and shoulders with lengths of rope and took ice moulds of his chest, back, arms, and legs — for what, Loki had no idea. As they went about their work, Loki was as least helpful and as difficult as he could have been.

When they left, Fárbauti sighed heavily, pulling a chair out from the table. When she sat next to him, Loki turned his back on her.

“Loki,” she said, and his shoulders stiffened at her tone. “Please, I wish to talk—”

“Talk with someone else,” he hissed, “for I do not.”

She took a breath. “How are you finding Jötunheimr?”

Loki’s laugh was a harsh and dry bark. He’d expected her to ask how he was feeling, about how much he was missing Asgard. This conversation opener wasn’t anything unexpected, but it was not something he would have prodded at first.

“I want this realm to burn,” he said without any kind of inflection, “and I want to be the one to light the fire.”

“Why do you feel such?”

Loki’s eyes narrowed. “ _Why?_ I was raised on stories of victory from the war, raised to believe it is the highest glory to kill jötnar, and so when I find myself amongst the enemy, my first instinct is to strike.” He shifted back to his Æsir skin. “I may be … may be _jötunn_ —” he spat the word with venom, “—by blood, but I am Æsir by thought.”

Fárbauti said nothing; she made no move to interrupt, no move to surge across to him and clamp his mouth shut, made no move to hurt him as Laufey would have done in a heartbeat. But her eyes held so much sorrow — no, that was _pity_ — for him that his temper spiked.

“Nothing?” he hissed. “No attempt to argue a case? _Why?_ ”

“Because I know I would not win.” The answer was so simple it stunned him into silence. “When Laufey brought you to me in your ruined Æsir regalia, I felt like weeping, and when he told me of what had transpired minutes before, my heart broke. But the bond a dam has with her child … you cannot describe that fierce love to someone who has not had the joy of having children of their own. I remember the first time I felt you stir within my womb. I remember your first cries as you left it. I remember the night your lines and horns were bestowed upon you. I remember only love.” She looked him deep in the eye. “We all thought you dead, and now we have been given a second chance—”

“To what? Fix what’s happened? You wish for the impossible,” he said viciously. “My mother is the queen of Asgard, for it was her who was there for me whenever I needed, not you.”

“I know I will not be her,” Fárbauti said lowly, “but I hope, with time, you will come to see me as something similar.”

“Never.”

Loki expected her — wanted her — to lash out at him like Laufey did when he denied his blood, but she didn’t. She twitched where she sat, as if she were thinking about coming to him, but she didn’t do that, either. “I understand,” she said, even though he doubted she did. “Thank you for being patient with them, Loki, and with me. If it’s privacy you wish for, then I’ll give it to you.”

He didn’t want privacy. In his self-destruction, he wanted her to tear him to pieces. To _react_ to him as Laufey did — like a frost giant. She gave him … understanding. Loki hated her for her kindness.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki didn’t emerge from his chambers for two nights afterwards, and he pointedly ignored anyone at the door.

“Loki? Loki! I want to talk.”

Loki turned his gaze to the door. He wanted Helblindi especially to leave him alone, because it seemed as if he was determined to attach himself to his side. This wasn’t the first time he’d come to the door. Loki turned away, curling his legs underneath himself and fiddling when Helblindi said, “I have something for you.”

Loki moved his gaze back to the door and, after a second’s hesitation, opened it with a flick of his wrist. The lock clicked, and Helblindi pushed it open, closing it behind him quickly. He looked around hesitantly, passing something from hand-to-hand as he took the room in.

“I’ve never been in here,” he said, reverent. “It was always locked.”

That was a rather curious piece of sentiment. Castles generally needed every room they could spare. “What is it, Helblindi?” Loki asked flippantly.

Helblindi frowned at Loki’s tone, and crossed his arms. “Where’ve you been over the past nights?”

“You seem to know the answer to that, seeing as you wouldn’t go away.”

“Funny, Loki; funny.” He straightened up and said, “You’ve got to speak on the first night, and I’ve heard there’ll be a hundred thousand people there.”

A lump formed in his throat. _What?_ _No … no, that has to be a mistake._ Loki hissed, pinching the skin between his eyes. “And I thought Thor was flamboyant.”

“What’s flambloyblant mean?”

“Flamboyant — and it means excessive.” _A hundred_ **_thousand_** _…._

“… Alright. But it got me thinking that I’d be really scared if that were me, and so I made you something.”

Helblindi shuffled over to the bed, and held his hand out to Loki. In it was a pebble on a leather cord, and scratched on it was a snarling wolf’s head.

“It’s not great, I know, but I tried really hard, and that’s what Sire says counts,” Helblindi explained sheepishly. “But the direwolf is for courage. I thought it might help, because I get scared when I have to stand and talk in front of people, and I know it’s been really scary for you over the past month.”

Loki didn’t know how to respond to the gift, so he took it, and his muttered “thank you,” was more sincere than he’d expected it to be. He gripped the cord, but made no move to put it on.

Helblindi was looking at him expectantly. Loki sighed, pulling the stone over his head. Helblindi laughed loudly when the cord became entangled within the horns, and he sent a chuckling Helblindi from the room with a snarl ringing in his ears.


	5. Chapter Four - The Deceit of the House of Odin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 25-11-2015**

Thor had, for once in his life, given up on the idea of fighting with brute force. He’d made no headway against his father, and their shouting matches, concealed behind closed doors, had gone on for hours. Bellowing, curses, insults, plans, and pleads had been hurled back and forth between Thor and Odin in unrelenting volleys, and it was through the efforts of the Kingsguard that servants crowding around the door to listen did not overhear the royals.

Grief was the reason behind it, many of Valaskjalf’s staff said. “He may have been an oddity, but Prince Thor’s love for his brother was great,” Thor heard a maid mutter to her friend when he had passed them one day.

If they just knew the truth….

Loki’s absence had been announced to the masses the morning following the assault on Jötunheimr — such a disappearance of one of the royal family would not go unnoticed. Missing, was the story that had been put out. The truth of what had happened on Jötunheimr could hardly be told, for both political reasons, and out of respect to Loki’s deepest secret. The Warriors Three and Sif had been sworn to secrecy about the subject of Loki’s heritage, and they had been detached from the rest of Asgard, retiring to private rooms in Valaskjalf. Thor joined them sometimes in their discussions about what had happened — a silent and angry presence that had set them on edge. Talk was mostly of Loki, and of how to get him back. Thor was an active part in these debates, but there were simple reasons they did not act on their ideas. The first of these was that the Allfather had forbidden it. Their deception had warranted a constant around the clock watch, as their trust had been lost. The second was that they feared for what other undesirable outcomes could come about if their plans and actions were made in haste once again. They were not close to Loki like Thor was, but the sheer gravity about the situation did not leave them unaffected.

“There was nothing that could have been done,” Sif told him constantly, hand on his shoulder and rubbing his back in comfort. Thor might have objected to her coddling of him at one point, but he was too grief-stricken to give as much as a shrug of protest. He spoke little as well, through unwillingness and the damage that had been taken to his throat from his arguments with Odin. Overall, he was sore and exhausted, both physically and mentally.

“It was my fault,” Thor kept saying in a hoarse and broken whisper, a hand on her waist as they sat together in his private suite. The Warriors Three had left them to prepare for the coming night, and Thor was grateful for their absence. Men were good for company, but they were not good for sitting beside a brooding prince. “If I had not been so hasty, so arrogant and so in want of battle, we would not have gone. Loki’s secret would still be buried deep, and we would still both be ignorant of the truth. If I had just listened—”

Sif did not deny his words; he was glad of that, for she knew as well as he did the truth behind the words. Telling him he could not have stopped it would have angered him greatly, but Sif was too intelligent a woman for that.

“It was a cruel thing to hide from the both of you, from him in particular,” Sif said. “But it was for—”

“‘For his own good’?” Thor croaked. “You don’t know Loki as I do, Sif, and I can only imagine his thoughts. Even after all of these years, I cannot really begin to fathom what he thinks. Now he knows the truth, I fear for his state of mind. For the hate that he will be experiencing towards himself. What he thinks I may do to him when we see one another again.” Thor clenched his fist and the hand on Sif’s waist tightened. “I don’t know how he fares.”

“Your father has Hlidskjalf, his ravens, and Heimdallr’s eyes,” Sif said as reassuringly as she could.

“Indeed he does, but he cannot ask Heimdallr to watch over Loki only. Heimdallr has to watch over ten trillion souls, and we have all discovered how deep our king’s sense of duty runs.” The bitterness in his voice couldn’t have been overlooked.

“Surely he watches Loki from Hlidskjalf.”

“For no more than a few minutes each day.”

“It is better than none at all,” Sif soothed.

Thor snorted. “Knowing Loki is alive is hardly going to comfort me tonight when we must all pretend otherwise.”

Tonight, after nearly a month of silence from Jötunheimr on Loki, and with his official missing status being unresolved, it had come to, as the royal family had known it would, to assume Loki was dead. It was necessary to complete the deception. That was all Loki’s life had become in their hands — one deception after another, going back to when he had been a baby. The funeral was to take place at dusk. All through the afternoon and evening, Bifröst had been lighting up as people came from all over Yggdrasil to pay their respects to the fallen prince.

A knock came at the door, and Sif answered it. A messenger stood outside, and he bowed low before addressing Thor. “Your Highness, you have been summoned by the Allfather to Bifröst. The royal family of Vanaheimr will be arriving shortly.”

Thor nodded, and he groaned when the door had shut. He had known they were coming — after all, they were family — but it didn’t mean he was going to be any pleased to see them. This was his time to mourn.

* * *

#

* * *

It was a tedious thing, sitting there upon his horse in his full regalia, helm included, on Bifröst’s walkway, the air humid and hot with the promise of summer. He didn’t want to play at this silly formality for family of all things, and if there was one thing he didn’t want to be surrounded by at this time, it was family; his knuckles were white upon the saddle’s pommel.

The walkway once again lit up at the stallion’s feet, rainbow colours streaming to the Observatory as it spun dizzyingly in front of them. Thor sat astride his horse next to his father upon Sleipnir with his mother on his other side. Behind them were the dozen Kingsguard.

“Her Royal Majesty, Queen Sigrítha Tóstadóttirof Vanaheimr and her husband, His Highness, Prince Consort Hœnir Bórsson of Asgard,” a herald exclaimed, stepping aside from the entrance to the Himinbjörg Observatory.

A woman dressed in snow-white garments glided gracefully onto the Bridge. She was beautiful, but in a strange way. Her nose was narrow, her violet eyes were big, and her chin pointed. Her hair was wavy and white-blonde, held back by a simple silver diadem. Drops of glass hung from her ears and clinked as she moved. Upon her arm was Hœnir, a somewhat plump man who still had the auburn hair that Thor’s father had once had, but it too was starting to turn grey at the temples. Hœnir was several centuries younger than the Allfather, the youngest of four, in fact. Thor’s other uncles, Vili and Vé, had perished in the Æsir-Vanir War.

“Brother!” Hœnir boomed, striding forward and clapping Odin upon the forearm. “I am glad to see you.”

“As am I, Brother,” Odin replied levelly, gripping his forearm in turn. “How fares Vanaheimr?”

“Well, very well,” Hœnir said cheerfully. “It looks as if we will pull in a lot of grain come harvest, does it not, dearest?”

“It is what the reports have told us, yes,” Queen Sigrítha said smoothly. She kissed Odin’s knuckles and said, “We are both so sorry for your loss, Brother.”

Hœnir’s eyes darkened before they roved towards Thor, then to Frigga, and finally to the empty place by her side. “Yes, our hearts were indeed stricken with grief when the news reached us of Prince Loki’s passing.”

Sigrítha nodded mournfully. “My deepest condolences also, Brother.”

Odin inclined his head. “We thank you for your grace.”

From the Himinbjörg Observatory came three other figures: two men and a girl. The men were both dressed in black and silver, their long hair — one which matched their mother’s light blonde, the other slightly darker and dustier in colour — was gathered into loose plaits that trailed down their shoulders. Thor thought it a blessing they had inherited their father’s green eyes, though — Sigrítha’s he found unnerving. Though the both of them were handsome, one of them was decidedly more so than his brother. Baldr was two or so centimetres taller than Höthr, clean-shaven, and had a chiselled beauty about his features. Thor could see he resembled himself somewhat, but it was the ghost of an impression.

The girl was Baldr and Höthr’s younger sister, Thrúdr. At seven centuries old, she was already becoming a fine young woman, and one that would no doubt be beautiful one day. She had her mother’s looks, eyes included, but her father’s auburn hair.

“Cousin,” Baldr exclaimed. “How good it is to see you.”

Höthr laughed. “You still persist with wearing that that ridiculous helm of yours?” he asked

“I think I look rather dashing,” Thor said, rumpled.

_“Ooh, nice feathers.”_

_“You don’t really want to start this again do you, cow?”_

He beat the memory back.

“Come,” Odin said, “you must be hungry.”

Five fresh horses were brought forth for the Vanaheimr royalty. Once mounted, they all turned back to Asgard and, chatting amongst themselves, rode back to have afternoon tea in the quiet recesses of the private dining hall. Talking needed to be done afterwards by all of them.

* * *

#

* * *

“ _Laufey’s_ son?” A log fell in the fire as Sigrítha turned her gaze upon it. “Why have you kept such important information from your closest ally?”

“It was necessary.”

It was turning dark in the Allfather’s study. The books lining the walls were old and musty, and they gave the room a cold feeling. Thor could not help but think of the sweeping expanses of the library he used to prowl in the late hours of the night looking for Loki who he often found curled up asleep in corners. The roaring fire in the grate was the brightest source of light, and the eight of them — Thor, Odin, Frigga, Hœnir, Sigrítha, Baldr, Höthr, and Thrúdr — were gathered around it. Baldr was standing next to his mother, his twin slumped in a nearby armchair, and their father seated next to Odin. Thrúdr had sat herself by Frigga in the corner. Thor stood by the window, his back to them all and his arms tightly crossed over his chest.

“Necessary that you must hide the fact you brought a jötunn savage into your home and tried to raise it as your own?”

Thor twitched, and his grip on his arms tightened. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sigrítha staring unblinking into the fire’s depths. “And took not just any jötunn at that, but their prince? You are mad, Brother.”

“Tell me, Queen Sigrítha — how many political secrets have you kept from me over the years?” Odin replied calmly, swirling his wine in the goblet he was holding.

Sigrítha’s lip curled. “How many others know of this?”

“Only us, a small number of Thor’s companions from whom I have extracted oaths from to not breathe a word of it, our head healer, and Heimdallr.”

“Why did you do it? What were you thinking?” Sigrítha asked, stunned. “I would have, as would have so many others, killed Laufey’s offspring when I first beheld him as a babe.”

“He was an innocent child. I found him abandoned and screaming in the rubble of a war, so I took him.”

“Are you sure he was abandoned?” Hœnir put in darkly. “Generally, if one’s offspring is abandon by a parent, that parent would not be so eager to take them back.”

“Whatever the truth, I found him, I gave him my name,” Odin said, “and we raised him a child of Asgard. You have both seen him grow, and you must agree he is not jötunn by action.”

 “There was indeed something there,” Sigrítha murmured, turning her gaze back to the room at large. “Something that spoke of more. I regret that I have found out what that more was.”

“Did you not sense anything with your magic?” Odin asked. “I always have. Whenever he cast spells within my presence, always he carried with him the bite of winter.”

“If I noticed it, I did not pay heed to it,” she said. “I make it a moral code of mine not to pry into the happenings of your realm with my Sight.”

“Why?” Höthr’s voice was a croak. He was gripping the arms of his chair tightly, fingers shaking with the pressure. “If it was mercy that stirred you, why take him instead of putting him out of his misery? Surely there was something more going through your mind than mercy, Uncle.” He blinked rapidly and looked to Odin who was studying him. “Forgive me from imprudence, Allfather.”

Odin waved it away. “Peace was my goal,” he said, “and to save Loki’s life.” Here his eyes strayed to Thor, who blanched.

“Father. Queen Sigrítha,” he muttered, crossing to the door and wrenching it open. He felt sick with the calmness of the situation — how they were discussing the matter over goblets of wine and huddled safely in Valaskjalf whilst Loki was on Jötunheimr.

“What is to happen?” Thor heard Hœnir say from inside. He paused, listening at the door.

“For now, blood has been repaid with blood. In essence, and to put it crassly, Loki was the weregild for Thor’s assault on the realm. But that is all that has been bought; the peace is an uneasy one, and one that would be easily shattered.”

“Well, then, if it is shattered, my realm offers to you our forces,” Sigrítha said.

“And I accept them whole-heartedly, but let us hope it does not come to that.”

Thor clenched his fists in his effort not to shout and storm. If his father was to refer to Loki as weregild, no matter how he admitted how blunt the comparison was, it enforced the fact even more to Thor’s mind that Loki was just an object to offer as a power play between the realms, and it made him sick with fury.

It was in a blind rage he found himself striding towards his wing, Bilskirnir — a multi-room complex which held sleeping-quarters, baths, wardrobes, suites, balconies, and a place to store his armour and weapons. He threw the doors open, striding past the fountain playing idly in the atrium. He crossed to his sleeping chamber, and the doors banged against the walls. He was breathing heavily as he flicked his eyes around the fine room. Thick rugs lined the floors — direwolf and bear fur that his feet sank into such was their depth and softness. The raised bed was seated upon a marble dais, covered in a white and gold spread and stitched through with red. Twisting above the bed was a rack of deer antlers, a huge thing with twenty-two tines, and it easily reached four metres across. A gilded door to the left led to his dressing chambers. But the grandeur held no interest to him; his hands itched with the desire to _destroy_.

And so destroy he did.

The first thing to go flying was the pitcher of wine he had had ordered to his chambers. He grabbed it from the low table and threw it against the wall. The contents flew everywhere, staining the rug and spilling over the floor as the jug clattered against the tiles. Thor bellowed as he pulled the covers off the bed, the sheets and furs ripping under his great strength as he threw them aside. He sought to destroy, to bring forth to the physical plain his emotions and banish the stoic mask he wore in public. The furniture crashed against the walls and the feathers stuffing the pillows went flying. He punched the walls, savouring the pain in his hands and the dents he left in the metal. It was the sheer helplessness of the situation that made him act so. Never had he felt so incompetent. Everything was … simply broken.

He didn’t notice Sif standing at the door for a long time such was his anger. When he finally stopped his rampage, he felt little shame for the tears spilling down his cheeks that would have caused him a lifetime of embarrassment had they flowed elsewhere. “Sif….” He stood before her, shoulders shaking and undone before her. _Judge me not, dearest Sif._

She crossed to him, and, before he could say anything more, she hugged him. A keening whine broke from his throat and he hugged her back fiercely; Thor swore he felt her hot tears running down his bare arm. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“I know,” was all she whispered. “I know. I heard what was happening.” Sif’s presence had been one small liberty Odin had allowed Thor. She had abandoned them at the mouth of the corridor leading to Odin’s study, and Thor was unsurprised to learn of her lingering.

“Then you know why I couldn’t stay,” Thor told her.

“I’m sorry,” Sif murmured. “Norns, I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “I—” He pressed his forehead against hers and licked his lips, holding her hands tightly. They stayed like that for a long while, basking in the other’s company. Thor had the strongest, strangest urge to kiss her then, what with him drinking in Sif’s scent of rain and oil and some wildflower perfume at her throat and wrists and in her hair.

But Thor didn’t kiss her, and she didn’t him. They stirred when the gong sounded across the city, signalling the beginning of the procession.

* * *

#

* * *

The drumbeats were slow, and they filled Asgard’s streets, made in time to the footsteps of hundreds of people as they made their way to the waterfront. Crystal spheres were cupped in many hands, the white of the glass starkly visible against the black robes of the mourners. The sky was dusky purple, and the lights of the stars and the distant shine of the other realms were beginning to show; it made the city eerily beautiful.

Thor was not looking at the mourners, but rather his eyes were on the small ship bobbing against its moorings twenty paces from where he stood. It was empty but for a single raised dais in its centre. Next to him were his mother, father, and the Vanaheimr royal family, each dressed in deepest black. Odin’s golden helm and armour gleamed in the low light. In his hand was Gungnir. On his shoulders, Huginn and Muninn were liquid shadows, and at his feet, Geri and Freki lay unnaturally still. A dark veil mostly hid Frigga’s face, but Thor could see through the thin fabric, if barely. His mother did not cry; her head was held high, her shoulders were thrown back, and there was a steely look in her eye that she focused on neither her husband nor her son. Her only movement was the subtle twisting of her hands; distress, Thor read it as. The Vanaheimr royal family, apart from Hœnir who was dressed in Æsir garb, each wore heavy robes, golden runes painted on the insides of their wrists.

Thor himself was dressed in dark armour. His mantle was gone, as were the scale sleeves that had been replaced by finely worked leather and metal vambraces, carved with knotwork and runes. His freshly oiled hair was pulled back into a tail, loose strands waving lazily in front of his face in the light wind off the water; he did nothing to push them away when they caught in his eyes and mouth. He wore a cloak of black wool edged with silver thread and fastened on his left shoulder with a burnished brooch. Mjölnir hung at his side. Next to him was Sif in her finest armour, her hair a curtain of rippling night in the slight wind, and her eyes were lined with dark kohl.

He didn’t look to her as the first of the Einherjar came through the crowd. There were six of them — bearing a litter upon their shoulders on which the body of the deceased would usually rest. But since there was no body to burn, there was instead a finely wrought sword — made especially for the occasion — a green shield decorated with a snake in gold paint, and Loki’s horned helm. The litter had been strewn with flowers as well in an effort to fill it. It was placed on the boat’s dais, and the Einherjar backed away, gold cloaks stirring in the faint breeze.

Next, an old woman stepped through the silent streets, and Thor, although he had seen her before, could not stop looking at her strangeness. Her skin was pale, so much so it shone in the soft lights of the universe; it was drawn over her body, every bone prominent in her face and hands. Her eyes were a hauntingly pale blue. She was dressed head to toe in black, bone beads on long necklaces clicking and swaying with her movements. Her steps were so smooth she looked to be gliding towards the little ship. Her breath was a cold footprint on the night air as she raised her arms high above her head; they trembled slightly.

“I, acting as the Angel of Death, call to the Norns. Hear my voice, and listen to my words. You have woven your threads as you have seen fit, and the life of Prince Loki, Son of Odin, Son of Bórr of the line of Búri, has passed from the world of the living to the world of the dead. His self has left this world, and so his body will follow.” She turned back to the hill, watching the Einherjar come slowly down the path in single file. Each held an object to his chest. Clothes, instruments, books, weapons, furniture, wines, food, furs, and miscellaneous objects were cradled gently in their arms.

“Loki, Son of Odin, owns a woollen cloak which will keep him warm in the afterlife, woven from the finest of threads, and it will serve him well. He owns an overcoat of metal and leather, and it will serve him well. He owns a set of fine armour, and it will serve him well. He owns—”

Each object was named and placed on the boat surrounding the dais, arranged artfully and neatly until the hull had dropped several inches in the water from the weight of it. Flowers were laid throughout the possessions, all the things had been carefully picked and chosen for display, whilst Loki’s more prized and valued things were put into storage. The crowd gathered on Bifröst’s Bridge cast petals, and they flitted through the air like heavy flakes of snow. They fell on Thor and Sif too, but they made no move to brush them off.

It was dark when the boat was full finally full, and when Odin stepped forth. A servant was at his elbow, presenting a platter upon which gleaming rings rested, each engraved with the Gar-Gungnir — the sigil of the House of Odin. Odin took one of the rings up and laid it on the ship. “I give you my blessings, Loki Odinson,” he murmured.

Frigga stepped forward, picked up a ring, and gave her blessings too. And then it was Thor’s turn. His steps were heavy on the brick pier, and the ring was achingly cold in his hands.

“Loki Odinson, my brother,” he said softly. “I give you my blessings.” _And I send you my luck, strength, and happiness. May they find you in whatever dark place you preside in now._ He placed the ring on boat.

He retreated with his mother and father, going to stand next to Sif once again, and she laced her fingers through his. His gripped her hand, glad for her.

The Vanir royal family did the same, and once little Thrúdr stepped back into line, the Angel lifted her head and began to sing. Although he spoke five languages fluently, he was unfamiliar with this one; he’d been told the songs were of loss and were bidding the departed luck in the afterlife, though. The six Einherjar that had borne the litter pushed the boat through the canal that led to the sea, and it cut through the water silently. Now the light spheres the mourners held flickered into life through a powerful magic, climbing to the very back of the crowd that stretched to the palace, and they lifted into the night sky. When the boat was a ways out, one of the Kingsguard drew a bow nocked with a flaming arrow, aimed, and fired. It soared through the air and landed squarely in the middle of the ship. It quivered for a second before the boat caught alight.

The Angel’s high voice rang through the air as the boat sailed further into the sea, the fire reducing the boat and the things upon it to ashes. Soon, it reached the edge of the realm. Odin lifted Gungnir and brought it down once, the sharp clack of the metal on the stone beneath their feet echoing in every corner of Asgard. The boat did not fall off the edge, but rather sailed on before dissolving into the stars. Thor’s eyes were dry, and he looked to Sif and found in shock her eyes were sparkling with unshed tears; he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, and she squeezed his fingers back.

They watched until the boat was completely gone, drowning in the siren song of the Angel as she continued her lament to hide the deceit of the House of Odin.


	6. Chapter Five - Eisbock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 25-11-2015**

When the first night of the celebrations came nearly a week after he had talked with Helblindi, Loki didn’t rest. He paced the whole day, half-formed thoughts of fleeing sparking through his mind. But when he tried to open his chamber doors when he could stand it no more, he found them locked by both key and enchantment. He resorted to fiddling with a ring he found in the negative space. Engraved with the Gar-Gungnir of House Odin. Once, it had fit comfortably around his thumb, but now it didn’t slide over the first joint of his little finger. When the sun started to set, a knock came at the door. The lock clicked open at the sound.

“Rise, Your Highne—”

He opened it before the servant, Bryja, could finish her sentence. By the way her eyes flitted over his face, Loki deduced that he looked terrible — it was hardly surprising, as he’d slept no more than a bare few hours in the last three days, and eaten only a handful of food. But she was professional about the matter and said nothing. “Please follow me, Your Highness. Your things are ready.”

She came into the room, gesturing towards the dressing antechamber. Loki slugged his way over, standing with his back to the main room as the four jötnar who had been helping him prepare over the past weeks came into his chambers. They had with them several new furs, a set of plate armour, and other articles of clothing he didn’t get a good look at before they were onto him. He didn’t fight their advances, just closed his eyes and told himself they would be finished with him soon.

They set to work at once, stripping him naked of his previous _kjilt_ , and quickly fastening a new one around his waist. This was backed by silver scale armour, the newly tanned leather and furs reaching past his knees. His hair was freed from all its previous tyings, and brushed forcibly from his face before locks of it were rewrapped with silver thread and hung with decorations made of uru, bone, and some kind of glass-like material. The armour plates were rested on his shoulders and back, held in place by his own ice, and they moved together smoothly. Metal vambraces were iced to his forearms; matching greaves went on his lower legs. The last things bestowed upon him were bands of gold that were slid onto his upper arms and horns. A final touch was a quick spell that accentuated the heritage lines.

When they stepped back, Loki turned to the mirror — a wall of smoothed and polished obsidian. He looked exhausted — the skin around his eyes was dark and bruised, his cheekbones far too sharp, his shoulders sagging, weight lost … But he also looked regal, that was something that could not be said otherwise, and his jaw tightened at that stray thought. He looked like the enemy more than ever. His eyes glowed like embers, and the heritage lines stood out far more than usual. Overall he felt … _wrong_. Felt as if he were looking through the eyes of a stranger. The urge to strike the monster down rose fast within him, and his fingers curled instinctively.

“You are to wait here, Highness.”

Loki looked away from the mirror. The jötnar had left, and two guards had taken their places at the door. They watched Loki passively, and he ignored them. Food had been put on the table, but he ignored that too; he didn’t think he could have stomached it.

He knew there was no recovering from the upcoming swearing of his oath of allegiance. Asgard had given him up, and Jötunheimr had claimed him. After tonight, he was to be bound to this realm and its peoples beyond even his dying breath. He felt like screaming, like breaking something, like weeping. But he forced himself to sit. It was a monumental effort.

He could hear the castle around him buzzing with activity, and it was around the time of the midnight meal he heard throngs of jötnar assembling before the castle and its outer walls. Loki didn’t dare to look out the window, for fear of what he would see beyond it. He sat ridged, desperately trying to ignore the swelling noise outside. It was maybe half an hour later he heard Laufey begin to address the crowds in Jötunn.

Loki had been given brief lessons in the language over the past few weeks by an older she-jötunn, Forad. He was a quick learner, his mind being able to absorb the new language remarkably fast so, by the first week’s end, he could stumble through several unbroken phrases with an acceptable accent. He’d then been taught, word for word, what he was expected to say at the ceremony before the first feast, and had been made to practice it until he sounded like he’d spoken the language his whole life.

The inside of his cheek was numb from biting it, and small wells of blood were open on his palms from where he had dug his claws into his flesh. The bites of pain were a welcome distraction.

“People of the Ice, Children of Ymir,” Laufey was saying, his voice magnified with magic, “I stand here before you with the pride of a king, and the pride of a sire.”

The guards closed in on either side, and started to all but herd Loki through the castle. Loki held his head high as he walked through the corridors, one guard in front of him, and the other behind. He was half-planning to bolt as they descended the levels to the open balcony where the king addressed his subjects, but he was all too aware of the sharp ice weapons the jötnar could form on their limbs in the blink of an eye, and he doubted he’d have enough time to properly escape.

Much of Laufey’s speech had been given by the time the guards stopped him a few paces from the open air. Loki had been listening on the way down, and much of what was being said he didn’t understand, but he grasped the general meaning well enough — Laufey was ridiculing the Æsir, mocking them for their past attacks, for Thor’s recent one, and denoting the Æsir to monsters.

“The Asgardians tore through our realm a millennium ago and destroyed our cities, our ice, and our land. We suffered terrible losses, some of them your friends and family whom we all still mourn. But the Allfather took from us much more than the Fornvetr. Until a month ago, we all lived in the belief he had killed my second born in his brutal conquest, but I am proud to admit what I believed was wrong. My son still lives … and he has returned to me.”

Laufey was a silhouette on the address balcony. Fárbauti stood next to him, and Býleistr and Helblindi on either side. Each was dressed in their finest. Laufey’s usual armour had been replaced by a set that matched Loki’s, wore white furs around his waist, and frosted silver vambraces and greaves. Around his horns, he also wore bands of gold. Fárbauti looked radiant. Around her shoulders was a cloak of white mink fur that trailed along the floor behind her, glittering with frost. Her hair was woven with gold thread and was draped over her shoulder. Rings glinted on her fingers, and a choker of solid gold flashed at her throat. Helblindi and Býleistr wore similar dress to Loki, although Helblindi wore no armour.

“I present to you your prince, second born heir to the Winter Throne of Jötunheimr — His Highness, Prince Loki Laufeyson, _Hornǫðlask_ , and _Hamramr_!”

He was given a small prod in the back, and Loki simultaneously pushed down the urges to hiss at the guard responsible and vomit. He collected himself and strode into the light, head held high, and his horns borne for all to see. He would not be weak. He swallowed his fear when he saw the thousands of jötnar in front of him. Helblindi hadn’t been lying when he’d said _a hundred thousand_.

_I am Loki of Asgard, and I will not show weakness to these savages._

He took a stance next to Laufey, refusing to look at him and the thousands of jötnar lining the castle grounds and Útgarðar’s streets. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the horizon, and addressed the star he had focused on:

“I am Loki, second born to His Majesty Laufey Náljarson, King of Jötunheimr.”

The words meant nothing to him. He said them as clearly and with the best accent he could, voice carrying to every ear. But it was merely recited from memory without much thought; he had delivered so many mind-numbing speeches rife with political and social lies during his life that this was just another thing that had to be done.

“I was held by the Æsir as a prisoner of war, trapped in their realm by steel and magic—”

_I am of Asgard. I am no Son of Odin, and I will refuse to acknowledge Laufey as my father in my heart—_

“—but now I return so that I may reclaim my rightful heritage. I am Loki Laufeyson, _Hornǫðlask_ , _Hamramr_ , your prince returned.”

— _and I am nothing but a political tool for negotiations, power struggles, and breeding. I was never going to be anything but it. Odin would have merely used me to the same extent._

A great wave of noise rose from the jötnar, and Loki was careful to keep his expression neutral.

_Play the lie. You’re good at that._

The worst was yet to come, and he knew it. He had doomed himself the night he had given into Laufey’s demands as he starved. He had sworn to obey.

The crowds fell silent when Laufey raised a hand. He gave Loki a stern look and said, “Kneel.”

Loki felt a cold claw grab at the pit of his stomach. He knew it had been coming, but it did nothing to dull the blow. _No, please don’t make me do this! Father,_ where are you _?_

But Laufey was not famous for his kindness.

It was fear that made him obey, and he slid to a knee. He was breaking out in cold sweat, fighting against every instinct that he had to _stay put_. He would be beaten down if he tried to run, killed if he tried to harm the royal family, ridiculed if he refused to speak another word, accused of treason when he had given his oath of obedience in his want to live.

He shook.

“And now for something that should have been done long ago,” Laufey said, his tone low. “Loki, Son of Laufey, my second born, do you swear to me your loyalty?”

Loki was silent for a second before forcing the words from his mouth. “I swear.”

“Do you swear me as your rightful and sovereign ruler?”

“I swear.”

“And do you swear to uphold your oath until your last breath?”

The silence stretched for a few seconds before Loki said in a hoarse voice, “I swear.”

“Rise, Prince Loki Laufeyson, and take your place.”

He was glad he was too far away for anyone but the House of Laufey to see the tremor of utter defeat that shook him as he tried to drown out the savages calling his name.

* * *

#

* * *

Representatives of the noble Houses of Jötunheimr had been streaming into the huge, vaulted throne room to give Loki their oaths of loyalty. He acknowledged each one with a dry whisper of “I have heard your oath to me and accept it” without as much as a bat of an eye. He was still too numb with despair at his situation to concentrate on what was happening in front of him. He was dimly surprised he hadn’t been sick.

He was seated in the throne next to Laufey’s which was usually reserved for Fárbauti, but the queen-consort had retreated into the more inner chambers. Býleistr had gone to the feasting hall, and Helblindi had followed him on the principle of finding his friends. Loki did his best to ignore the king. Laufey was watching Loki as he was given oath after oath. Names, titles, and the faces they belonged to that all looked the same to him were bouncing through his head to the extent it hurt.

“Loki-Prince,” a jötunn said, shuffling forward on his knees, chin up and showing his throat. Loki looked him over. He had the triple-lines of the highborn across his skin, and Loki groaned with the prospect of what it implied. The highborn would be the ones to prowl the courts the most, were the ones he’d have to learn to play politics with. “My family and I are overjoyed at your safe return to the realm of your birth and the reclamation of your title and your blood. On the behalf of the House of my name, Dúrnir, I would present to you a gift of the feathers of the extinct Thunderbirds of Suðulendirar.” A servant came forward and presented a bundle of large, electric blue feathers gathered together with a strip of red-grey fur. Loki nodded glumly, and one of the castle servants took them away. “On behalf of myself and my House, I swear to you the fealty my line as I have sworn to your sire and his dam before him.”

“I have heard your oath to me and accept it,” Loki said monotonously. “Rise, Lord Dúrnir, and go to your family.”

“Thank you, Your Highness, my most glorious prince,” the jötunn said, bowing low and turning to leave.

Loki looked up, and internally howled with frustration and rage at how long the line was. He didn’t want to sit here and receive gifts and oaths that were meaningless to him.

“Prince Loki.”

Loki blinked and refocused. _Prince Loki_ , not _Loki-Prince_ ; that had gotten his attention. The next two jötnar stood before him — a male and a female. Judging by their identical heritage lines — these ones also in sets of three — they were brother and sister. They too bowed their heads.

“We wish to take this chance to welcome you back to Jötunheimr together,” the she-jötunn said as they straightened up, “as my brother will be leaving soon for Gastropnir, and we won’t have another opportunity to give you our well wishes for a long while yet together.”

The she-jötunn was dressed in light shoulder armour. Her furs were of the highest quality, and her black hair had been pinned high at the back of her head. She herself was tall and slender.

The jötunn had leather strips wound about his arms and a luxuriant _kjilt_ of black fur. He was bald, something Helblindi had said was the sign of a warrior, as it couldn’t be tugged on in a fight. The both of them were battle-scarred.

“Thank you.” Loki’s response was stiff.

“My prince,” the brother said, “may I introduce my sister, Lady Angrboða Vörnissdóttir, and myself, Lord Hræsvelgr Vörnisson, of the Gastropnir province.”

“House Vörnir,” Laufey said. “Ah, but Vörnissdóttir-Lady and Vörnisson-Lord, it has been a long while.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Angrboða said, flashing a smile. “My brother and I come in lieu of our sire. He apologises greatly for being unable to come himself, but he is not currently well.”

“It is a long journey between here and Gastropnir. Give your sire my well-wishes on your return.”

“You are very kind, Your Majesty. I shall,” Hræsvelgr said. “I am afraid I must depart after this feast. My sister will be staying in Útgarðar, however.”

“Enjoy this night then.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I shall, Your Majesty.”

They bowed simultaneously and backed down the steps. Loki settled back in his seat, and sighed deeply as the next in the queue, a stout she-jötunn bearing double-lines, came forth.

It was another hour before the last of the jötnar saw Loki, and by the end of it, he was exhausted. Laufey rose with him, and Loki glared tiredly at the king. He was miserable.

“You need food,” Laufey said confidently as they followed an escort through the castle to the feast hall.

“I need to be left alone, especially by you,” Loki said in the Allspeak.

“You won’t be alone for a long time yet.” Laufey backed Loki against the wall and continued, his voice laced with threat, “So much as put a _toe_ out of line over the next few nights, and I will make sure you regret it, am I understood?”

“Clearly,” Loki said, his own tone menacing.

Laufey looked down at him for a few seconds, eyes narrowed with suspicion. Finally, after what seemed like minutes to Loki, Laufey turned and continued on his way. Loki exhaled before he sensed the guards take their places behind him.

“Come, my prince,” one of them said.

Loki didn’t need telling twice.

* * *

#

* * *

The dawn feast was something that, despite its ravishing nature, Loki had no interest in. Fárbauti tried to engage him in conversation, but with little success; whatever answers he offered to her were nothing more than singular words.

The feast was, he supposed, grand. The tables were arranged in a U-shape along the sides of the cavern-like feast hall. It had a vaulted ceiling, and the dark, frost-coated rock sparkled like diamond. The royal family, some of the higher noble families, and Laufey’s trusted inner circle — none of whose names Loki could put to the faces as they all looked the damn same — sat at the top table. The other jötnar who were invited to the feast were also of highest status.

The jötnar were loud like the Æsir were at feasts and, not surprising Loki in the slightest, the noise was less controlled than the shouts and bellows in Asgard’s halls. Hungry feasters quickly demolished platters of meat. Drinks of fermented berries and weak alcohols were placed in decanters strategically along the tables. Entertainers occupied the floor, performing arts and feats such as ice-shaping, magic, tricks, and mock fights that drew the attention of the crowd. Loki also noted with surprise that within the crowd itself, both sexes sat at the same tables instead of being separated. The she-jötnar were just as rowdy as the male jötnar, sometimes even more so.

The feasting continued on for a long while, longer than Loki would have usually stayed at feasts in Asgard when he would slip away at the first opportunity he could, and the sky outside was lightening when Laufey stood. Silence fell at once. The performers in the middle retreated with bows before they left the hall.

“Nobleborn of Jötunheimr,” Laufey started. A servant appeared at his elbow and offered a frosted crystalline globe to the king, which he took in hand. “We have had precious little reason to celebrate for many centuries — not since the birth of my third heir, surely. Not only have we had victory over Asgard, but my son has been returned to me, and my legacy secured all the more. To the return of my son, and may he bring pride to the name of his House, and to his people.” Laufey threw the globe high into the air, and it nearly brushed the ceiling before it crashed in the centre of the room. A surge of icy air rippled throughout the hall, and the ice began to shift where the thing had landed, building and twisting as it formed a huge tree. Its branches stretched the every corner of the room, encompassing all under its canopy. “Celebrate as you see fit until Yggdrasil itself melts!” Laufey crowed.

It was the cue many had been waiting for, and they rose from their seats to mingle. Býleistr went over to a group of jötnar at once, and he folded himself into their company with no effort on his part. Helblindi ran to a knot of younger jötnar on one of the far sides of the room. Loki remained seated, staring at the rendition of the World Tree. As he looked more closely, he could see the formation of nine globes along various branches. He picked out Jötunheimr instantly — it glowed a bright, icy blue. His eyes slid to the very top of the tree, and his throat constricted as the golden realm of Asgard twisted itself into being.

He realised with a start Fárbauti was watching him carefully. “It’s an old belief of the jötnar,” she said in explanation, “that ice is one of the main structures of Yggdrasil. Ymir told his children that they would be the proudest of races, and their pride would die only when Yggdrasil melts and the realms collapse with the Ash.”

Loki said nothing in return, instead playing with his untouched food. He’d barely eaten anything for two nights, but he didn’t feel hungry — he still mostly felt nauseous.

He looked up and cursed under his breath when saw several jötnar coming towards the top table, their eyes fixed on him. He stood smoothly and turned away from the gathering, going to one of the many outside balconies that ran along the right side of the room. They had been concealed by drapes of Alfheimr bamboo-silk during the meal, but the servants were now pushing them back.

Loki strode to the edge of the balcony and leant upon the balustrade. The sounds of celebration were more distant out here, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the crisp air of the dawn. Even so, he still felt like he was going to vomit. Or faint. It wouldn’t be hard.

He didn’t miss the sound of shuffling steps behind him. He looked over his shoulder to find a group of maybe five or so she-jötnar standing a few paces behind him.

_Why—?_

But then Laufey’s words awoke in the back of his mind:

“ _You have deep heritage lines and the horns of the Royal House. You’re one of the_ hamramr _,_ _and you’re attractive. Your brood will be strong when you mate.”_

But of course…. Oh, damn the Norns, he was an idiot for not realising that this would happen sooner. Sick rose in the back of his throat.

“Your Highness,” a she-jötunn said after a few seconds of frantic whispering to her friends in flowing Jötunn, “we … we come to offer you our well wishes, and we hope, in time, our friendship.”

He shifted his weight and looked at them from the corner of his eye, back straight, and chin jutted upwards. It was a calculated move on his part, one that he knew had elicited many flustered reactions from Asgard’s women. At least two of them blushed, and Loki’s worst fears were confirmed.

They wanted him.

If they thought of him as handsome, he thought of nothing of every single one of them in return. How could he be attracted to them? They were monsters, and he couldn’t look past it to the faces and bodies underneath. They repelled him. His promise never to produce offspring echoed through his mind, and he knew it was something he was easily going to keep. But then again, politics didn’t care if a partner was beautiful or homely, only that it brought alliances and children.

He snorted. “Please,” he started in the Allspeak, “if you wish to gain entrance into my bed chambers and subsequently participate in our pleasures, then you are to be disappointed.” He glared at them. “Slack another’s appetite this night, but do not seek me.”

“Your Highness!” the girl squeaked haltingly in the Allspeak, her face darkening as she blushed deeply. “I merely offered you wishes and friendship.”

“And I have told you also, I will take your wishes and nothing more. Now _be gone_.” A hint of threat hung in the air, and the she-jötnar, all dressed in their finest, backed away slowly. Loki glared at them until the last had turned away, before he went back to his previous position. This sort of confrontation was going to have had to take place sometime, and all he had to say was that he wanted the she-jötnar to piss off. Being cruel to them was one way of driving them back to the familiar. The sooner he started his rejections and the news spread around, the sooner he would be left in peace.

 _They’re as shallow as the Æsir who seek to further their social status_ , he thought, and the realisation of the parallel made him laugh softly. _Once a prince in a game of politics and power, always a prince in a game of politics and power._

Over the next forty-five minutes, he was accosted by four more groups of she-jötnar, all of whom he sent scampering away. But, he noticed irritably, always there seemed two or three who were bold enough to hover just inside, watching him carefully for any sudden moves on his part to reengage with the celebrations. Most of those who sought him out, he noticed, looked to be his age or younger. But it was hard for him to tell, what with their unfamiliar features.

 _They’ll be waiting for a while_ , he thought amusedly, waving away a servant who offered him a drink of fermented berries.

“Loki.”

Loki groaned quietly. He turned to rest his elbows and lower back on the balustrade as Býleistr came towards him, a young, highborn she-jötunn on his arm. She was dressed in furs befitting royalty, and around her neck was a long silver chain. Loki really looked at her, he supposed she was beautiful, but in an unconventional way. She had narrow eyes and a rosebud mouth, the corner of which twisted up into a quirk of a smile. A scar twisted itself down her abdomen, starkly contrasted to the darker hue of her skin.

A sneer curled around Loki’s mouth. “What is it? Care to partake in some of the sluts who’re after my company? I seem to have a never ending supply of them.”

Býleistr and the she-jötunn’s jaws tightened.

“I forgot you like those Asgardian women,” Býleistr said venomously after a heartbeat. “Tell me, for I’m curious — are they good to fuck?”

“Why are you asking me? Can you not find out for yourself?” Loki asked coolly. “But I forget your nature — I doubt they’d want to lie with the brute you are.”

“A jötunn? Then are you not a brute too? Grýla, you must hear of what my dearest little brother thinks of himself and women. He thinks himself so above everyone and everything else and because of it, he is scared of lying with women. But I haven’t yet figured out why.”

“Býleistr,” the she-jötunn, Grýla, sighed, “don’t—”

But she was cut off. Loki surged forward and snarled in Býleistr’s face, “You don’t know my reasons not to copulate with she-beast whores.”

“Oh really?” Býleistr replied savagely. “‘I will not pass this despicable blood to another’. ‘If you want grandchildren, get them to give them to you’.”

And Loki, finally, snapped.

He surged forward, blinded with rage, and punched Býleistr in the face. He knew jötunn flesh was tough, tougher even than Æsir skin, so punching Býleistr was like punching a wall. Býleistr stumbled away, snarling, and aimed a swipe at Loki. Loki weaved around Býleistr’s arm, and grabbed at his hair as Býleistr reached for his horns. Both of them missed their targets. Loki could hear someone calling for them to stop, but he couldn’t care for the less. His vision had narrowed to Býleistr, and he shifted his weight, the claws on his toes screeching against the ice. Then Grýla’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he struggled against her hold, spitting at Býleistr in the Æsir tongue, “You know nothing about me, you know _nothing_ —!”

Býleistr’s lip pulled back, and Loki reached for the negative space and one of his throwing daggers. Býleistr launched himself forward, his arm hooked to catch Loki around the throat. Loki plunged his hand into the negative space, his fingers curled around a leather-wrapped hilt—

A low roar sent Býleistr scrambling away from Loki. Býleistr knelt and, once Grýla released him, Loki quickly followed his example as Laufey came on them. Many of the guests hadn’t realised what was going on, and were continuing to act in their ignorance. Laufey looked to the servants, and they lowered the drapes to block the view of the royal family.

“All of you go,” Laufey said. Grýla, who was panting softly, and the she-jötnar who were hovering around in a last attempt to catch Loki’s eye, left at once.

“Sire,” Býleistr said as soon as they were alone, “I apologise most profusely for my actions.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Laufey cut him off. “I want to hear what Loki has to say for himself.” Laufey turned to him. “What warranted you to tear his throat out after I told you not to do such a thing?”

Loki grit his teeth. “I was provoked.”

“And you think childish provocation entitles you to fight him? At a feast in _your honour_ , nevertheless?”

“There’s a lot about Æsir culture you don’t understand, isn’t there?”

Laufey didn’t look impressed. “You,” he said, jabbing a finger at Býleistr who shifted his weight in discomfort, “tell me what happened.”

“I spoke the truth, Sire — that he wants nothing more than to lay with those monsters he calls Asgardian women,” Býleistr muttered. “He has been quite cruel to the lovely women here tonight. He calls them sluts and whores.”

“Are they not?” Loki said scathingly. “It is my choice that I will refuse to lower myself to fuck any of your ‘women’.”

“The misogynistic bastard just needs to right sort of species for his tastes to spread their legs, and then he will bite,” Býleistr mocked.

“I will not have you … _bickering_ ,” Laufey said finally. “You will apologise.”

Loki looked at Býleistr coldly, and said through his teeth, “I apologise.”

“Likewise,” Býleistr bit back.

Laufey seemed satisfied enough, for he growled, “Leave your quarrels, and if you break the peace again you will rue the consequences. Am I understood?”

Býleistr gave a nod, but Loki said nothing. He had Býleistr where he wanted.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki didn’t reappear the next night until he was forced to. He used the time before he was required to make another appearance finishing his plot against Býleistr, finalising the preparations he had been making for a fortnight. After Bryja woke him from the exhausted heap he’d finally collapsed into sometime in the afternoon, Loki went with a slight spring in his step, his mind upon a single task.

He slipped into the feasting hall quietly through an adjacent corridor, and he managed to get to his seat before too many people noticed his appearance. Loki saw a she-jötunn tap her friend on the shoulder and mutter into her ear. They flicked their eyes towards him, and Loki shifted his weight, crossing his arms firmly.

“Hello Loki,” Fárbauti said, sitting down next to him. Loki grunted, his eyes still fixed on the she-jötnar as he filled his plate with food in order to do something with his hands.

Fárbauti followed his gaze. “Ah.”

“What’s ‘ah’ supposed to mean?” Loki snapped, pausing to glare at her.

“Tradition.”

“What tradition?”

“It is standard practice,” Fárbauti said quietly, “that these women will to fight each other in _hólmgangar_ for your attentions as a potential mate for you. It should have happened a century ago with the coming of your _kyn_ , but … it is what it is. Loki, do not be surprised if you yourself are challenged by others of the court.”

“Me?” Loki said, startled. He didn’t even fully understand what _hólmganga_ exactly was. Helblindi had mentioned it the first night, too.

“They will want to see how fit you are to stand beside Laufey, regardless of the fact that he is your sire. You are new. They’ll want to know of your position amongst them.”

Once his throat had unstuck, Loki asked so quietly he thought Fárbauti might not have heard him, “What’s _hólmganga_?”

“Formal single combat.”

Loki bit his lip, glowering. This was ridiculous. Thor had always been the one itching for a fight. But it was the thought that he would be fought over by others that made his blood run cold.

“Where’s Laufey?” Loki asked now, noting that the king wasn’t there.

Fárbauti sighed, rubbing her temples. “There has been … trouble from beyond the Skógarmaðrfit in regards to what has happened. An emissary from Þrymheimr arrived this eventide.”

“Þrymheimr?”

“A powerful outer province. Their standing with Útgarðar has always been strained, and with what has recently happened, politics with them are anything but easy.”

So, that was what this visit from the emissary was about: him. Þrymheimr, wherever it was, disagreed with Laufey’s decision to … what, take Loki back? He whole-heartedly agreed with them.

Loki’s attention was snatched away from his musing as Býleistr entered the hall through the main doors with Grýla on his arm. Býleistr nipped at her ear, and she jumped back with a laugh.

 _This is perfect_ , Loki thought. He checked the negative space with the barest flick of attention. Yes, still there.

It was with a chill smile that Loki ate everything on his plate, waiting for Býleistr to finishing both flirting and eating before he approached him. As soon as he finished, Loki got up and stood in front of Býleistr, staring at him stonily and crossing his arms. “Býleistr, I would talk with you. Privately.”

Distrust was rife in Býleistr’s eyes, but he stood to follow Loki. The two went outside to where they had fought the previous night.

Loki turned to him stiffly. “There is one reason I’m doing this, and you know damn well what it is,” he started, looking at a spot several feet over Býleistr’s shoulder. “I … I _offer_ an apology for my behaviour. An apology on my own grounds.” The words lodged themselves in his throat, unwilling to be given shape.

“And what makes you think I will accept it?” Býleistr asked, sceptical.

“I’m not expecting you to,” Loki said loftily, “but I would rather not push myself further into Laufey’s bad graces. I’m not doing this for you — I’m doing this for me.”

“For you?” asked Býleistr, his lip curling.

“For me,” Loki agreed. “You won’t miss out, either. When one gives apologies in Asgard, the aftermath is spectacular, something to reforge the bonds of friendship and brotherhood.” Loki pulled from the negative space a skin full of liquid and two drinking horns he’d taken from the kitchens early that evening. “Just look at all the effort I’ve gone to make it up to you.”

“You’re that confident I will accept?”

Loki said, with magic on his tongue, “Of course I am. No one can say no to some alcohol, after all.”

Býleistr’s eyes lit up at the word, a combination of the charm and his own want. Alcohol was scarce on Jötunheimr, grains being a hard thing to grow, and anything they produced was so weak it would take several kegs to get drunk on.

Býleistr held his hand out, and Loki gave him one of the horns. He continued his magic to strengthen Býleistr’s greed. “Excellent. This here is a drink most particular to the Æsir: beer if you’d like to know, and this is the stuff that flows like water at even the slightest hint of celebration.”

“And how did you get it?” Býleistr asked, suspicion creeping back into his voice.

“I made it,” Loki said with a shrug. “Bit of magic to speed the fermenting process up, but be assured I did not find a way to sneak back in Asgard to get this specially for you.”

Loki opened the skin, and sat against the low wall of the balcony, tipping a little into his horn and passing the skin to Býleistr. Býleistr sniffed it with some trepidation.

Loki’s eyebrow rose. “You think I’d poison you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not a fool to do it in the middle of a court like this. I’d like to live to see the sun rise another day.”

Býleistr filled his own horn to the brim, and Loki raised his. He downed it in one, then looked expectantly at Býleistr. He copied Loki, swallowing the stuff with some difficulty. He barely managed to keep from making a face. “That’s disgusting,” he said gruffly.

Loki wanted to say he had worked with what he had, but thought it best to shut up. “It’s so bad it’s good,” he offered in explanation.

“I don’t get that.”

“Me neither, but still we come back for more. Another?”

Býleistr held his horn out in answer. Loki divided what was left between them, but gave Býleistr most of it once more. Again, Loki drank in one, but Býleistr had to finish his in a few mouthfuls. Perhaps Loki had given himself two or so mouthfuls, and Býleistr much more than that. A lot more.

Býleistr dropped his horn with a clatter, and shook his head. “And that’s the fun part of your apology?”

“Usually it’d go on for a much longer time,” Loki told him, “but I don’t have an endless supply of beer.”

“Never give that stuff to me again; tasted like svell-dýr shit.” Býleistr strode back into the feasting hall and Loki crossed his arms, a smile curling around his lips.

* * *

#

* * *

An hour and a half later, Loki’s patience began to pay off. He kept half an eye on Býleistr, and half an eye on the she-jötnar in the room, periodically moving himself around the hall in an effort to avoid them. At some point during the feast, Laufey came in along with a few of his advisors. All of them looked disgruntled. Laufey himself sank gratefully into his seat, immediately reaching for a thighbone he crunched up. Fárbauti talked quietly with him as he ate, and from their expressions, Loki guessed the topic to be one of intense frustration.

“My prince.”

Loki started a little. He’d stopped to watch the king and queen-consort, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed. He looked around, cursing the fact he had missed the she-jötunn’s approach. It was far too late to slip away now, so he nodded and gave the best smile he could. “Forgive me,” he said, voice dripping with honey, “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced.”

The she-jötunn laughed a little at that. Her triple-lines spoke of her status at once — that of a highborn noble — and her face was soft, her skin surprisingly free of scars unlike many of the other jötnar of the same age and rank he had seen. Her hair was long enough to brush the small of her back; glittering sapphires had been woven into it. “I am Lady Thorn Fyrnisdóttir, Highness. I’ll be competing in the coming _hólmgangar_ for your attention.”

“Is that so?” asked Loki, mouth suddenly very dry.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Thorn said, bowing a little.

“I look forward to it,” he lied. Gesturing around, he asked airily, “Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes, I am, thank you,” said Thorn. “And you, Highness?”

Loki eventually settled for saying, “It’s different from the feasts I’ve attended before.”

Thorn hummed. “I am sorry for the position you find yourself in now,” she said. “It must be terribly disorientating.”

Loki hated how she was trying to bring him to ease and, with the eyes of the court upon him, there was little he could do but offer another smile back at her. “It has been,” he replied. “This, everything here, it’s very different to Asgard. Less golden, for one.”

“I can only imagine, Your Highness.” Thorn dipped her head. “I do hope during the upcoming months of the _hólmgangar_ that you and I can grow closer. It would greatly please me, as I believe I could greatly please you in return.”

“We shall see.” He gave her what he was sure it was a terrifyingly toothy smile. “Goodnight to you, my lady.”

It was a clear dismissal, and she took it gracefully. As soon as she turned her back, Loki slipped to the outside balcony. He placed his hands on the balustrade, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. The balustrade was low enough that he could simply tip over it if he leant forward far enough …

“What did she want?”

Loki whipped around. The she-jötunn from the night before, Angrboða he remembered, was standing a few paces behind him. Her arms were crossed, and her shoulders relaxed.

Loki snorted, subtly taking half a step away from the wall. “The exact same thing as you apparently — to be my friend and get in close.”

Angrboða rolled her eyes and sighed in such an exasperated way Loki had to admire her nerve. “Don’t get your feathers puffed up about me,” she said dismissively. “I don’t see the attraction to men so many women cannot ignore.”

“Is that so?” he said, a hint of suspicion still lacing his voice. “Why talk to me then?”

“His Highness has a healthy amount of suspicion, I see. Keep it. But I seek you because, as you said, it looks like you need a friend.” She joined him at the balustrade, resting her forearms on the top. She looked down on Útgarðar and said, “Many see you as something to sink their claws into, what with your newness to our courts.”

“I am hardly blind to the happenings of court,” Loki said.

“In Asgard’s courts maybe, but not ours. The system may be the same in some ways, but in others, hardly so.” She jerked her head slightly over her shoulder. “Thorn apparently has that in mind. If she squirms her way in early, then you’ll be bound to pick her as your mate through both personal attraction and pressure; she’s one of the greatest fighters participating in the upcoming _hólmgangar_. Isn’t that how it works? Early bird gets the worm or however you like to say it?”

Loki narrowed his eyes. “Something like.”

“I suggest finding someone else to be a confidante, someone whose main concern isn’t about getting into your _kjilt_ ,” Angrboða said. “Thorn is hardly that person.”

“You think yourself the better candidate?”

“Of course,” she said. “I have a mate of my own already, and I hardly need another.”

Loki snorted again, and she raised an eyebrow. “You still don’t trust me?”

“You’re the one who said I have a healthy amount of suspicion. You’d be foolish to think I trust anyone,” Loki said. “I’m in the lion’s den, aren’t I? Surrounded by your kind.”

Angrboða did not miss the contempt in his voice. Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers interlaced tightly. “And, if you mind my asking, Highness, what does being one of ‘my kind’ entail, exactly?”

“I thought you’d be able to fit the pieces together. You seem smart enough to do that.”

“Monsters, then?”

His silence was her answer.

“It couldn’t be further from the truth,” she said.

“Forgive me for my scepticism,” Loki said, calm. “My arrival was anything but graceful; you can hardly blame me for thinking back on my childhood where frost giants were unquestionably monsters. I haven’t seen anything to suggest otherwise.”

“I can assure you, Highness, we extend the courtesy to Asgard. Those who believe the same of Asgard are not welcome to this celebration.” Angrboða leant in closer. “You could be dead and buried in the snow, and no one would have known that the lost son of Jötunheimr had ever lived past infancy. Instead, you are welcomed back, despite your upbringing to the displeasure of many, including Þrymheimr and its _jarl_.”

“Then why bother making me this offer of friendship?” Loki asked quietly, bristling at the sheer bluntness of her words. “If you think the Æsir monsters, and then in extension think of me as a monster, why do this?”

“Well, don’t you spin everything out in the darkest fashion possible?” Angrboða muttered. “It is because you are my prince. I thought you too were smart enough to see that, _Your Highness_. Not only is it my duty to my province, but it is my duty to you as a good person. I advise you to make some friends if not in me, then in the sons and daughters of the court. Friends would do you well for both political and personal reasons. My offer isn’t made in the hope of gain.”

Loki didn’t believe her for a heartbeat. “And how can I expect to trust you?”

“By knowing that I will refuse to tip-toe and quail around you like so many others will. I seek to help, and my advice will not be given in comfort so to please and soothe you.”

“I could kill you for speaking like that to me,” Loki said.

“Is that supposed to make me tremble?” Angrboða asked, before she snorted. “You’ll find we’re not as courteous with our words as Asgard is; not me, anyhow. I think you’ll find I’m too valuable to be pushed away. I’m someone who is closely and heavily involved within the court and has no desire for personal or selfish gain for either your cock or the power you could provide for me. Opportunities like this are few and far in between, so I suggest you get off your high káshta, and adapt to this situation, understand?”

Loki bristled, and said icily “Thank you, Lady Vörnissdóttir.”

“It was my pleasure, Your Highness,” Angrboða said, giving a low bow before walking away. “My villa is just outside the castle gates,” she called back over her shoulder. “Feel free to come by any time you would like.”

Loki stood rigid for a few seconds, trying to get his mind around the conversation. No one had lectured him like that for centuries, and the last person to do so had been Frigga. He felt like ignoring the advice simply for spite, but he grudgingly admitted to himself that she _was_ right.

“Oh, Brother, you’re talking to others tonight in a civilised fashion. I thought the night would never come.”

Loki cursed in Æsir-ian as Býleistr clapped him hard on the back. He was annoyed that he couldn’t have five minutes to himself, and Loki pulled away with a hiss. Norns, Býleistr had to be off his head if he was acting like this. Perhaps Loki had miscalculated just how much alcohol he had given him, or just how intolerant Býleistr’s gut was to it.

“Oh, get back here,” Býleistr told him, half-heartedly grabbing at him again. “A thousand a fifty years you’re gone, and this is what you do? Pull away even more?”

“Don’t you want me to pull away?” Loki bit back.

“Why?”

Loki rolled his eyes so hard they ached after. “Norns, you’re drunk.”

“Drunk,” mused Býleistr, tilting his head to the side. “I’m not _that_ drunk.”

Loki had to laugh at that. “If you were in my position, I wouldn’t be inclined to agree with you, lightweight.”

“Brother.”

“What?”

“Brother. You’re my brother, and you’ll call me such.”

Loki scoffed. He tensed as Býleistr’s arm snaked around his shoulders and pulled him to his side. Loki squirmed in an effort to get away.

“Look at you,” Býleistr murmured absently. “Just look at you…. The last time I saw you, you fit into the palm of Sire’s hand. You were so small, but now look at you, with your lines and your horns….”

“Yes,” Loki agreed acridly. “Now I’m part goat; you must be so proud.”

“Goat? Nay, the horns are honour,” Býleistr said. “You know how many people would _kill_ for these?”

“You think I care for—?”

“You should. If you don’t, you’ll be targeted, and then … we’ll lose you again; _I’ll_ lose you again.”

“Since when has this sentiment ruled your heart?” Loki asked. “It’s unlike you.”

“Just hear me out,” Býleistr said, waving him down. He didn’t speak for some time. “I thought you dead, Brother,” he finally said. “Everyone thought you dead, and I never … I never …”

“Never …?” Loki prompted.

But Býleistr seemed to have lost interest in the topic. “I’m just glad you’re back; that you’re alive.”

“Býleistr,” Loki said finally. “Let me go.”

Býleistr didn’t let him go. Loki was struggling now, digging his claws into Býleistr’s chest in an effort to loosen his grip.

“Ack, ‘Rungr,” Býleistr said. “Stop.”

“Býleistr, let me go now, or I will stick you.”

“Touchy, touchy.” But Býleistr let him go.

Loki sprung back and looked at Býleistr with his head tilted to the side. What was Býleistr playing at? Býleistr hated him.

Loki turned to walk away, but he halted when came face-to-face with Laufey. Loki wondered how long he’d been standing there. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and apparently quite comfortable. Loki made his way past the king without looking at him, eager to turn in for the day. But Laufey caught his arm before he stepped foot inside. Loki tried to pull back, but Laufey muttered in his ear, “Listen to him.”

“He’s off his head,” Loki said.

“Where did you manage to get alcohol of that strength?” Laufey asked, his grip tightening.

“Magic,” Loki hissed. “I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

“I ordered you to not do anything.”

“I’m a born and bred liar,” Loki said. “Looking for loopholes is second nature. You ordered me not to argue with him, and I haven’t. I went to fix what it was between us, and in Asgard that means drinking each other under the table. No harm done, so let me go.”

Laufey looked at him heavily for a moment before releasing him. “Do something like this again,” he said, “and the consequences will be dire.”

Loki ignored him as he walked away. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. Rather, he was glad Laufey of all people had seen. Loki wanted to show Laufey his ability to squirm through tight holes, and squirm he had done. He could be dangerous, and he hoped to the Norns Laufey understood that he couldn’t keep Loki under his thumb as he so desperately wanted.


	7. Chapter Six - A Definition of Bravery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 25-11-2015**

Sigyn came from a lesser noble House, one recently made during the Jötunheimr-Asgard War. Her sire had led an attack on an Æsir battalion and, surprisingly, had won against the odds. As he had been a commoner before, her heritage lines were not extravagant like the others she had seen during the nights of celebration; they spoke of recent rank gain in their small number and simplicity and, their damning trait for this situation, their double-lined nature.

The night the celebrations had been announced, young she-jötnar had started pouring in from all over, including the Gastropnir, Glæsisvellir, and Þrymheimr provinces, to participate in trials of strength and combat to woo the newly returned prince. Sigyn had made it onto the shortlisted forty somewhere towards the end.

“This will be a one-time opportunity for you, and therefore us, to achieve as high a status as royals,” her dam, Gestilja, said in her ear as she teased Sigyn’s long black hair into knots, decorating it with touches of ice crystals.

“We are but a lesser House, Dam,” Sigyn said quietly. “I stand no chance against the highborn.”

“But we are strong, you are strong. You have proven it,” Gestilja soothed. “I will love you no less if you do not succeed: you’ve already gone so far. If you do not win, then you have already secured your future to be mated to a greater lord: a highborn one, perhaps.”

Sigyn wasn’t overly happy with the reassurance. She knew she would be judged, if not by her family, then by her peers when she returned unsuccessful. She wouldn’t have proven herself strong enough for the prince’s attentions. After all, who thought much of the lesser noble Houses of Jötunheimr? They were props. Props for the higher nobility. Royalty never gave the lower nobility a second look.

Sigyn was torn from her thoughts by her dam. “Come now, Sigyn. Let me see. Stand up.”

She stood and faced Gestilja. She gave a small smile and turned on the spot. Sigyn wore about her shoulders snow fox fur, the white drawing attention to her face. Her belt she wore high on her hips, the furs of her _kjilt_ falling down her front past her knees. Around her neck was a choker of gold, and bracelets clinked on her wrists. Her eyelashes had been darkened with bláraskr, and her heritage lines accentuated.

“Oh, my child,” Gestilja breathed, pressing her hands to her mouth. “You … you are beautiful. I … Oh Oblivion.”

Sigyn gave a tiny, embarrassed smile. “Thank you, Dam. But we shall see compared to the others within the hour.”

* * *

#

* * *

With the end of the celebrations, it was time for the real competition for not only Loki’s attention, but the attention of the royal family to begin. It was nothing but tightly held traditions that had halted any sort of fighting for the past nine nights.

Sigyn guided Bröthi, her káshta, through the main gates of the castle, and she urged him to the front steps. A stablehand was waiting for her, and he took the reins from her. “Shall I send for someone to help you, my lady?”

“I am fine, thank you,” Sigyn said as she slid off Bröthi.

The stablehand nodded and backed away. Sigyn took a breath, and climbed the stairs.

“Your name, my lady?” the official just inside the huge double doors asked.

“Sigyn Bláinsdóttir.” From within a pocket carefully stitched into her _kjilt_ , Sigyn took out her heavy parchment invitation and handed it to the official.

She took it, looked over it once, and nodded. “You shall be escorted, Lady Bláinsdóttir. I wish you luck.”

The page that was assigned to her was also one born to a low noble House, and he snuck glances over his shoulder at her in evident curiosity. Sigyn gave a small smile to him as they came to the throne room, concealed behind doors of stone and star-iron. The guards that were positioned on either side opened the doors. The hinges groaned, and chatter drifted through to the hall.

“Lady Sigyn of the House of Bláin,” the waiting herald announced. Sigyn stepped past him, looking at the competition before her. Some of them were highborn, and they had attended many of the feasts over the past nights. For Sigyn, this was the first time she had seen the other women, and her heart dropped like a stone. Her finery was nothing compared to what others wore.

Some wore gold and precious jewels from throat to ankle. Some had woven bells into their hair, and some had wrapped themselves in lush feathers and furs. Some wore paint and inks in swirling patterns over their bodies. Some even wore almost nothing, their only adornments jewels and pelts which, when posed in certain ways, left not much to the imagination.

And it left Sigyn looking exactly what she was — a member of a low noble House.

Some of the women looked to her at the herald’s announcement, but many quickly lost interest, turning back to their circles and talking in low voices. Sigyn looked around, and quickly crossed to a group of lowborn women.

“I’m sorry, I—” Sigyn fumbled with the fox fur around her shoulders as the group looked at her. “I haven’t come to Útgarðar-Greater much. I don’t know anyone.”

“You’re Sigyn-Lady, are you not?” one of them asked. Sigyn guessed her to be the leader of the group, judging how everyone angled themselves towards her. She looked haughty, assured of herself.

“Yes,” Sigyn said.

“I’ve not heard of your House,” the woman said.

“House Bláin,” Sigyn answered. “We have lands three nights’ ride away in Gastropnir’s direction.”

“I see.”

Talk was cut off as the royal herald entered. “His Royal Majesty, King Laufey Náljarson, King of Jötunheimr, Lord Ruler of the Snows and Skies, Guardian of Jötunheimr’s Heart, and strongest of the jötnar. And his mate — Her Royal Majesty, Queen-Consort Fárbauti Káradóttir, Dam of the Ice and Seas of Jötunheimr.” Sigyn bowed low as the two stepped into the hall, and they took their places at the front of the room, settling themselves into two elaborately constructed thrones of ice. “I present His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Býleistr Laufeyson, first born of Laufey-King and Fárbauti-Queen-Consort.” The heir presumptive entered the room, his potential mate Grýla-Lady upon his arm. “I present His Royal Highness, Prince Loki Laufeyson, second born of Laufey-King and Fárbauti-Queen-Consort, Horn-winner, and Skinchanger.” Loki-Prince strode into the room, his steps quick and efficient. Sigyn couldn’t help but lift her eyes a little.

He was a striking sight. The armour of his royal regalia was freshly polished, and silver thread had been woven into his hair. On his arms and horns were bands of gold, and his heritage lines were bold strokes against his skin. And he was _beautiful_. This was the first time Sigyn hadn’t yet seen him up close, so his almost delicate, even effeminate, features caught her by surprise. But for all of his finery, he carried with him an air of reluctance. He was stiff, that much was obvious, and Sigyn bit her lip as the throng rose as one.

The royal family, without the youngest prince, had sat themselves on the dais at the head of the room. All of them, except Loki, were looking over the women with a critical eye. Sigyn’s heart was pounding.

“Your Majesties, Your Highnesses,” the herald said, spreading his arms wide to indicate the women. “These women have proved their strengths and their blood as suitable matches for His Highness Prince Loki Laufeyson. Each has proved their own and their Houses’ loyalty to the crown. Each has expressed their desire to be the love of Loki-Prince.” Turning to Loki-Prince, the herald said, “Is this pleasing to you, my prince?”

Loki hesitated for half a second but, upon catching his sire’s eye, gave a stiff nod. Sigyn’s breathing faltered. His unwillingness would make his attention all that harder to gain. She kept her face straight, unbetraying of her sudden thoughts of despair. The simple truth was she _was_ attracted to him. He was lean and long-limbed, and there was hard muscle packed under his skin.

“May I present the top ten candidates to vie for his lordship’s attentions.”

The ten were all from high noble Houses, and they strode to the front of the room when the herald announced their names:

“Thorn, first born of House Fyrnir; Skaði, first born of House Thajzi; Haera, seventh born of House Hloi; Glut, fourth born of House Fornjótr; Jarnvidja, third born of House Hyndla—”

While the names were being recited, Sigyn’s eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Loki, looking for any hints as to what he was thinking. But all she saw was his disinterest. No sparks of interest, no nothing — in fact, for most of the presentation of the strongest ten, he was looking at the back wall. He blinked when they had all lined up, and said lowly, “Let me see the others.”

Sigyn held her hands behind her back as the other thirty women stirred; evidently, they had not been expecting the words, had expected Loki to take interest in only the strongest amongst their number. Her heart started to hammer from nerves.

Loki rose from his seat and walked down the dais. He came in front of the crowd, scowling heavily at them. Sigyn shifted her feet, but she refused to lower her eyes.

“Highness.”

Sigyn hadn’t realised it was she who had spoken until forty-four pairs of eyes were suddenly upon her. She froze, hand twitching towards her mouth as she realised what had happened, but she forced it to stay where it was at her side. Damn her nerves.

Loki looked at her incredulously. He padded to her, and the crowd blocking his way parted until Sigyn stood alone. Her heart was hammering against her ribs.

Loki came within an inch of her and looked at her through narrowed eyes. Sigyn swallowed.

“Yes?”

“Highness, I …” She was trying to come up with something, but she couldn’t think of anything.

Evidently, Loki had deduced that. “And who are you to speak out of time?” he breathed.

“Lady Sigyn Bláinsdóttir, Your Highness,” she replied tonelessly. “Third born to House Bláin.”

“Tell me, Lady Bláinsdóttir,” Loki said, “are you brave, or stupid?” One woman tittered.

“Sometimes bravery requires stupidity, Your Highness.”

Loki snorted. “All bravery requires stupidity, not ‘some’.”

“Bravery and stupidity are separated by the intent of the actions undertaken, Highness,” she said in barely more than a whisper.

Loki drew his lip back in warning, and Sigyn shifted her weight. Oblivion, that had been _too much_. But she had done too much now, and it took every dreg of her courage to not flinch away from his stare. But much to her surprise, it wasn’t anger she saw in his eyes — it was some twisted emotion of hate that caught her heart.

Loki twitched, and Sigyn was sure he was going to do something to her. She braced herself for some sort of strike, but all Loki did was turn away, his breathing calm and even as he set his eyes fixedly on the dais which he once again climbed. He sat himself down upon his high-backed seat, his expression schooled as if the discussion had never happened. “Be aware I would have your tongue if you talk so brazenly to me again,” he said quietly.

Once again, all eyes were on Sigyn, and it was now she felt their weight on her, crashing upon her shoulders.

She strode forward to the throne, bowed low and muttered, “My king, my queen-consort, my princes — please excuse my brash actions; I must take my leave.” She then exited the hall. Once out of view of the guards, she sunk against a wall, hands to her mouth and the dull thought of, _Oblivion, what have I done?_ echoing through her.

* * *

#

* * *

“Sigyn, for the love of everything sacred, please _do not_ tell me that what I’ve heard happened in the throne room is true.”

“It’s true,” Sigyn said with a deep breath. “I spoke out to Loki-Prince.”

It was well past dawn, and two of Sigyn’s five siblings who had accompanied her from their land a night’s ride from Útgarðar-Greater had come to see her in her rooms at the castle when she had notified them of what had happened. Their sire, who was staying in their villa in Útgarðar-Greater, was on his way.

“And what was his reaction?” her brother, Alfarin, continued insistently. “What were the other womens’ reactions?”

“By Oblivion, what do you think?” Sigyn snapped. “I think you’re smart enough to have an educated guess — they were as shocked as I was.”

“From what I’ve heard going around, you didn’t just ‘speak out to him’ — you Oblivion-be-damned _lectured him_. And by doing so, you’ve made yourself a target,” Alfarin said angrily. “Where has our strategy gone that we spent _hours_ developing?”

“I don’t know what I was thinking!” Sigyn yelled. “Shouting at me about it won’t change anything, Brother.”

“He’s right,” her sister, Skaerir, said. “What you’ve done is caught the prince’s attention, and how? Because he didn’t punish you for what you did. The others aren’t fools to miss it. You’re dangerous to their mutual cause. They’ll want to remove the danger.”

“Do you not think I know what my actions have caused?” Sigyn said, bristling. “I’m not an idiot, Skae.”

“You have all the reason to make me think you are,” she replied coolly.

“You’ve put a target on your back,” Alfarin agreed.

“Oh — really?” Sigyn bit out. “Thank you for telling your idiot sister of what she is already well aware of.”

“I do not wish to see you get hurt,” Alfarin said in frustration.

“‘Hurt’?” Sigyn laughed scornfully. “I was going to get hurt no matter what. Physically hurt, emotionally hurt, because what chance did I ever have of winning the prince’s affections? We’re the lowest of noble born. There are Houses that are vying for Loki’s attentions that have been strong for _millennia_. We are the first generation of our parents’ names born into this position. We have not the strength. We have not the experience.”

“You think so lowly of us? Of yourself?” Skaerir asked.

Sigyn looked to her eldest sister stonily. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Sigyn, after failing to reach the shortlist, and then seeing you place, don’t you dare say that. You have the chance of a lifetime.”

“It would have been better on myself if I had failed as well,” Sigyn whispered. “Because then I’d have never had the hope I could succeed. I made myself the most detested person in the room because my tongue and nerves slipped. I—”

The doors opened, and the three of them looked around sharply as their sire entered.

“Sire!” Sigyn exclaimed. Her aloofness for the situation seemed to evaporate as she stood. She folded herself in Bláin’s arms, a sudden tremble wracking her body. He was half a hand-width shorter than her, but he enveloped in his arms now. Sigyn could feel the smooth texture of the scars under her cheek that marred much of his body, familiar as her own face.

“Oh Sigyn,” he murmured. “What has happened?”

“She has given herself a death sentence, that is what,” Skaerir snorted. “If not by _hólmganga_ , then from the hands of the royal family for speaking so brashly to their prince.”

“Sigyn, tell me everything,” Bláin said.

Sigyn eased herself from Bláin’s arms, sat down on one of three stools in the room, and told the story to her sire in a low voice.

“It just _happened_ ,” she said with a note of pleading, a pleading for her sire to _understand_.

But there was no anger in Bláin’s eyes, only a look of thoughtfulness as he turned the situation over in his mind. “The prince did nothing to you?” he asked quietly.

Sigyn shook her head. “No threats of punishment, no physical punishment. He was just as shocked as I was.”

“Thank Oblivion,” Bláin muttered.

“But the _hólmgangar_ ,” Skaerir interjected. “What about those?”

A thought crossed Sigyn’s mind that made her shudder. “What if he’s withholding punishment because he wishes to see me humiliated in front of everyone by losing?”

“Unlikely,” Bláin said, “because you’ve humiliated yourself plenty already. And there is always the risk you would win.”

“I can’t win!” Sigyn cried. “Sire, my skills are not enough to defeat so many! The higher Houses—”

“Those of the higher Houses won’t be challenging you at eventide,” Bláin said soothingly. “That is where our status comes into it. You, to them, are nothing but an irritation that needs scratching, and they will rely on someone else to defeat you. You’re too insignificant to bother with. They also won’t strike because if they did challenge you first, it would reflect back onto them as cowardly to pick fights with the weakest of contenders. No, they will be fighting last. And Sigyn—” her sire took her face gently in his hands, “—when you get to those final stages, you will have a reputation, and then you stand an even greater chance of Loki having you. What you have done tonight is wonderful — provided you win. No one else can do what you’ve done.” He kissed her forehead.

And it was that simple action that caused Sigyn to crumple. She hugged her sire again, all pretence between them falling away, and whispered, “I’m scared, Sire.”

“I would be surprised if you weren’t,” he told her.

Alfarin looked confused. “Sire, she has doomed herself.”

“My son, always the pessimist,” Bláin chuckled. “Have faith in your sister; she is strong.”

* * *

#

* * *

Skaerir stayed that day after she had persuaded the steward that it was best for her sister. “You need someone to help prepare you,” she said when Sigyn had objected to this development.

“Prepare for what?” she asked, a pang of unease fluttering through her.

“You need to keep an image, my dearest, idiotic sister,” Skaerir said, a hint of mischievous intent in her eye. “And since we’ve now made ourselves a new battle-plan, I’ll be here to make sure you _don’t_ change it this time around.”

Her tone was one of no-nonsense that Sigyn needed at that point. As she lay back upon the bed and Skaerir eased her chin up, Sigyn pushed her dreads away. This was her sister, and all she wanted was to bolster Sigyn as best she could; for her benefit.

“What if everything goes wrong?” Sigyn’s voice was small, almost lost to Skaerir who stopped in her work at once. “What if everything goes the other way? What if we were wrong about how everyone reacts tonight?”

Skaerir shook her head. “It’s a game of prediction, Sigyn,” she said. “These predictions we arrive at through logical sounding out, and so the night these things are not true will be the night Yggdrasil falls. Take comfort, my sister; everything will be alright.” Skaerir went back to her work, soothing promises upon her lips that eased Sigyn’s mind. “You won’t be ignored by a single soul, even by Loki-Prince, and that in itself will stimulate fighting; I’ll make sure of it.”

And so that was why, when Sigyn came to the throne room after the larger dealings of the realm were over, she looked radiant. A hush settled over the crowd when Sigyn stepped forth and she lifted her chin, looking straight ahead as she strode into the room. Her hair was bound into a knot atop her head, shorter valravn feathers stuck into it; the shimmering colours of the feathers’ coating oil flashed in the light. A shawl made of the palest of silks trailed from her shoulders and onto the floor behind her; something that had been her dam’s and was hastily repaired by Skaerir all throughout that day. She wore jewellery at her neck, wrists, and on her upper arms.

“Lady Bláinsdóttir,” the herald presiding over the room said at her arrival, bowing low.

Sigyn nodded before she swept past him as gracefully as she could, silk fluttering behind her. She was scanning the crowd, looking for the group she had joined last night.

“You look beautiful,” a voice said.

Sigyn looked around, and she almost jumped out of her skin in shock when, of all people, one of the _highborn_ was just behind her, smiling. She wore a thin fabric — thin enough that Sigyn could see her nipples pressed against it — around her chest and hips that fluttered behind her as she walked. There was a thin silver chain around her neck, and her eyes were darkly lined with bláraskr. Across her chest were three huge claw-mark scars.

“Thank you,” Sigyn replied, her voice shaky. “Lady …?”

“Glut. Glut Fornjótsdóttir,” the woman said. “And I must say, Lady Bláinsdóttir, I am in awe of what you did last night.”

“I am a little, too,” Sigyn confessed. “I did not mean to speak—”

“Well then. There is no use crying over it. It has happened, and you garnered much attention because of it. You have been quite the topic of conversation, this eventide.”

“Have I?” Sigyn asked. But what had she expected, really?

“I’m surprised,” Glut said, smiling lightly. “I was expecting you to be the most arrogant of souls, but instead I find such a humble one. It is a pleasant surprise. Please, walk with me a little.”

“Of course,” Sigyn said. She stepped as gracefully as she could beside Glut, and the two of them made their way to the edge of the room.

“I admit I have not heard of your House before,” Glut said pleasantly. “It is a real shame to have been ignorant of so brave a woman, especially since she has now spoken against the prince.”

“We are a newly formed House,” Sigyn said, “so I am not surprised. I am quite surprised that I even managed to make it here.”

“If your fighting skills match that of your courage,” Glut said, “then I would hardly be surprised.” It seemed as if Glut had broached the subject she wanted to discuss, for she said in a low voice, “Sigyn, I’ll warn you now: be careful. From what I have heard over the past night, you have hardly left the best of first impressions upon the more competitive of our number.” Her eyes darted towards a knot of women who, Sigyn saw, were shooting them filthy looks from the corners of their eyes.

Sigyn took a breath.  “It is the danger of making such an impression.”

“I rather think they are furious more-so at Loki-Prince than you,” Glut said. “They do not know how to act around him because of his … circumstances. They are annoyed, for you took a gamble that ended favourably, especially since they have tried so very hard to have him notice even their existence.” Glut shot a not-so subtle glance at several who had outdone themselves in their jewels and furs.

“I did not mean to,” Sigyn protested. “The words merely slipped out.”

“But they do not know that.” Glut wasn’t looking at her, instead watching the group of women. Now that Glut was looking pointedly at them, the group, it seemed, was determined to keep their eyes on each other. Sigyn felt somewhat smug. Not only was Glut one of the highborn, evident by her triple heritage lines, but was one of the strongest ten competitors. Hardly the best company to get on the bad side of.

“Sigyn, I was one of those competing for the attention of Býleistr-Prince, and the competition is fierce. I walked away from it with my own fair-share of scars.” She gestured to the claw marks on her collar. “You’re drawing attention to yourself because you’ve caught Loki-Prince’s eye. To them, you have become one of the most undesirable people in this room from a social standpoint.”

“I suspected I might have,” Sigyn said, but her heart had thudded somewhere to her guts. She’d been young when Býleistr had first sought potential mates, and she remembered hearing of the brutality of the competition. Several who had been unsuccessful bore scars for their efforts.

Their conversation was cut off when the herald announced the royal family. Glut and Sigyn rejoined the crowd as the royal family strode in as one, and everyone bowed their heads in respect. She took a deep breath when she straightened up at the king’s instruction, expecting now to be jumped on.

And she was not to be disappointed.

Mere seconds after the House of Laufey had sat, a woman approached Sigyn, determination sparking in her eyes. “I challenge you to _hólmganga_ , Sigyn Bláinsdóttir,” she said.

“If you so wish,” Sigyn said. Despite her earlier misgivings, she now found herself to be quite calm. This woman was of a middling noble class, the complexity of her heritage lines told her that much. But there was an air of inexperience about her, as if she had not fought much, and Sigyn almost wished for a more seasoned fighter to have challenged her first. But, she thought to herself, this would be an easy way to slide into the _hólmgangar_ if her suspicions were correct.

“I do wish so,” the woman replied. “Name when we shall meet, and it shall be.”

“Upon the eventide,” Sigyn said.

Loki-Prince’s arms were folded, and his eyes were upon Sigyn. She wondered what he was thinking.

* * *

#

* * *

The arena was a huge circular structure, a colosseum of black rock crowned with spikes of ice, broken and battered from both the war and time. The arena floor was a hundred paces in diameter, a place where mock battles and countless _hólmgangar_ for highborn and royal hands had been fought. The ground was a smooth ice field, cleared of snow and debris.

Sigyn had thought as a child it was huge, and standing in the arena herself now, that feeling of intimidation crept upon her once again. A few hundred jötnar had come to see the _hólmgangar_ tonight — a total of seven scheduled. Hers and her challenger’s, Vind’s, was first. Closest to the arena floor was the royal family. The box faced the opening gate to the floor; behind it, Sigyn could see others ready to lift it at a command, and several of the _heilarar_.

The roar of the crowds was silenced as General Thjazi Alvaldason, one of the realm’s finest in combat, stood before the commentator’s podium opposite the royal stands above the gate. “Sons and Daughters of the Ice!” he proclaimed, and his projected voice echoed throughout the arena. “This _hólmganga_ between Vind Fleggdóttir, second born to Flegg Svivoson, and Sigyn Bláinsdóttir, third born to Bláin Kottjarson, has been recognised by both parties. The official rules apply to this _hólmganga_ and have not been subjected to change. Speak now if there are any objections.”

No one stirred, so Sigyn charged forth, her shoulder braced for the impact with Vind. They crashed together, and Sigyn snarled in pain. She dug her heels into the ground, gripped Vind’s shoulders, and threw her away. Vind fell and rolled back onto her feet, spinning around and stalking Sigyn in a circle warily. Sigyn waited, crouching low and her muscles loose as she joined Vind in her circling. She was deaf to the screams and roars of the people watching, and she didn’t dare sneak a glance to the royal box; Vind would take any and every opportunity to defeat her.

And so Sigyn paced, and she waited. Her heart pounded in her chest, and blood roared in her ears.

Most of the time was spent sizing the other up, and when they engaged each other, it was quick and brutal, clawing and biting and hitting before they broke apart and circled again. Most other species of Yggdrasil wouldn’t have fought for half as long as the jötnar usually did in their _hólmgangar_. Although the jötnar had some of the most robust hide and densest muscle amongst the realms, there was more than their bodies on the line in the _hólmgangar_.

Reputation of strength was by far the most important thing the _hólmgangar_ symbolised. Sigyn had once seen a woman bite out a man’s eye in _hólmganga_ , but the match hadn’t ended until the man had eventually stood triumphant, blood pouring down his face and several teeth missing. He’d barely been able to stand, but he’d left the woman in utter shame. She’d been demoted to the common class of people, hers and her immediate family’s second heritages lines stripped from them.

Strength was the backbone of jötunn society. Battle wasn’t only about how hard one person could hit another. With nothing but teeth and claws and fists, the goal was to cow the opponent into submission through tactics and cunning. It wasn’t about who had the best weapons — it was about wits and wile and knowing when to use the brute strength the jötnar possessed. The fighting of the _hólmgangar_ was an art in itself.

But this _hólmganga_ between Sigyn and Vind was never meant to be as violent as the one she’d witnessed. These were the early nights. Nights when those competing for Loki’s attention were testing the waters.

After minutes of circling, of playing with each other and searching for weaknesses in the other’s defence, they were battered and tired. Sigyn had landed several cuts upon Vind’s forearms and one of her ribs, but Vind herself had hit Sigyn a half-dozen times too. Sigyn’s cuts stung, the bruises already beginning to discolour her skin. Then, Sigyn lunged. She went for Vind’s throat with a hand. She came hard and fast, and the momentum threw Vind away. Vind hit the ground, and Sigyn dug a knee into her gut, baring her teeth in threat. “Yield,” Sigyn said lowly. Her claws tightened, and blood welled at Vind’s throat.

Vind struggled, but Sigyn had her pinned. “I yield,” Vind said finally, contempt.

Sigyn stood, a flash of triumph burning across her face as she looked to the screaming crowds, stamping and clapping in approval. The _hólmgangar_ used to be fought to the death generations ago, but Sigyn was content with Vind’s humiliation. She cowered on the ground, shoulders slumped, and throat bared to Sigyn.

Sigyn found the eyes of the thirty-eight other contenders. Some were blank, some were uncaring, and some were so venomous Sigyn felt a sliver of nervousness overcome her. But she had the blood of her opponent upon her. She had claimed victory, and all they did was sit in their stands and sneer at her.

And finally, finally, she turned to the royal box. The king was looking at her, but neither his expression nor his body language gave away any thought in his mind. His chin was upon his hand, and he seemed to be studying her. For what? The queen-consort’s expression was a little more open, for she smiled down upon Sigyn, but beyond that, she was guarded. Were they surprised that she’d won?

But Loki-Prince … he looked uncaringly at her, legs crossed and, when her eyes met his, he slid them down to his claws, picking at them with far more attention focused on them than her. Sigyn’s smile faltered somewhat. This, she realised, all of this, was nothing but a formality he had to sit through. And if she did win, what would he do? He might not have even cared.

Sigyn looked to Vind who was getting shakily to her feet. Once she was up, Sigyn gave a stiff bow and walked from the colosseum, her heart only growing heavier.


	8. Chapter Seven - Gamla Uppsala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 25-11-2015**

“Northland!”

Thor was startled into reality by Fandral’s sudden exclamation. “What?” he asked somewhat sluggishly. The book he had been poring over had lost his attention a long time ago, and he couldn’t remember what he had just read seconds before.

“Don’t you remember?” Fandral asked, leaning on the bench and looking at Thor with a raised eyebrow. “Years ago; when we went to Midgardr with the Allfather because of an Ævaleysa that led to Jötunheimr.”

Thor sat up, back straight, and looked around warily. “Keep quiet,” he said in a low whisper. “Heimdallr might choose this moment to turn his gaze upon us. Not to mention the guards.” His eyes slid to the two guards at the end of the bookcases, bored after standing there for hours watching their prince reading.

Fandral’s excited expression fell into one of nervousness in the blink of an eye. He sat down next to Thor, peering at the book open on the bench in front of him. A look of understanding dawned on his face.

“I wish to understand more about my brother’s race,” Thor offered in explanation. This tome, and the few others he had found on the jötunns and their realm, Thor read with a heavy heart. They denounced the jötunns to nothing more than beasts — something which he already knew, having known all his life of their savage customs and the violence they inflicted wherever they went. But Loki, even with all his faults, was not a beast.

“I’ve been thinking,” Fandral said in barely more than a murmur. “Bifröst is still closed to Jötunheimr and will be for an indefinite amount of time until things have settled, but that in itself might take decades, even centuries, and we cannot wait that long.”

“Would we able to find safe passage along the Ævaleysa?” Thor whispered back. “One of Yggdrasil’s stray roots would rip someone apart if they were to pass through it unprotected.”

“I’m working on that,” Fandral said, picking up one of the books at random and starting to thumb through it. His brow pinched as he came across an illustration of one of the many battles in the Asgard-Jötunheimr War: of the Einherjar organised in orderly ranks, and fitted in shining gold armour, and the jötunns with savage snarls, rough ice weapons, and blood on their claws and fangs. Fandral shook his head. “I just can’t believe it….”

“Neither can I, but it is reality, whether we like it or not,” Thor said.

“You’ve known him since he could crawl, and you never suspected—?”

Thor cut across Fandral’s question as he shut the books none too gently, tucking them under his arm. He stood and the guards straightened at once as he walked towards them, Fandral behind him. Thor had given up asking the guards to leave him alone, and he found himself cursing his father yet again; he often did these days. It had been a month and a half since Loki had been taken: a month and a half of sleepless nights and unpleasant days. Dreams kept coming to him — dreams of his little brother ripped apart by the jötunns, dreams of him battered and broken and, most recently, terrifying dreams of his brother sitting on a throne of bones and black ice, demanding Thor to kneel before Jötunheimr’s king.

Next to his anger towards Odin, there were several other emotions. Confusion was one of them, betrayal another. But there were two which were predominant in his mind: fear that his visions of Loki would come to pass — that he would be brainwashed into becoming just like the jötunns — and hatred towards not only Odin for his decision, but to the frost giants. It was crippling in its own way, and all he could think about for days at a time was shedding the blood of the monsters for ripping Loki away from him, for claiming him and, the biggest crime of all, for birthing him jötunn.

He’d taken much of his anger out in the training grounds. Wooden mannequins, dummies stuffed full of hay and straw, shields, swords, and armour alike had caved under Mjölnir’s heavy blows as he’d poured his frustration and rage into her. And each time he brought the hammer down upon an intended target, he imagined it was a frost giant’s skull being crushed. The books currently tucked under his arm fuelled his wrath all the more. His brother was trapped within the grips of the jötunns, and Norns knew what they were doing to him.

“So, what are we to do?”

Thor frowned as he was pulled from his thoughts by Fandral’s mutter. “Tell the others to meet me in my private suite after the meal tonight, and make sure they come quickly and quietly.”

Fandral nodded before he left Thor, peeling off down a perpendicular corridor.

* * *

#

* * *

It was at his mother’s insistence that Thor came to sit with her and the Allfather at dinner that night.

“We must start to heal ourselves,” she had said, but he had noticed her eyes were wet with unshed tears when she had said it.

It was the imposed normalcy in the air that disturbed him the most. The rectangular table had been rearranged so, instead of Thor and Odin sitting on one side with Loki and Frigga opposite them respectively, his father’s chair had been moved the head of the table and the other two centralised. Every time Thor looked up, expecting to see Loki sitting opposite him, his heart withered a little when he saw his mother there instead. His plate had been piled high with steaming food: mutton covered in gravy, herbs and grease, roasted vegetables, and sourdough bread, but his appetite was still gone. Everyone’s was, he noticed; most of the food remained untouched.

“I’ve been told you spend much of your time reading,” Odin said in an attempt to start conversation.

“Have they also told you what I have been reading of?” Thor asked bitterly, cutting up a piece of mutton and spearing it on the end of his knife.

“Yes, and I am not surprised of your choice of subject,” his father said.

“What I have been reading … it makes my stomach turn,” Thor said quietly. “Loki is not like that.”

“I believe in him not to be corrupted by them,” Odin said calmly. “That is my wish — that he will be the saviour of Jötunheimr and bring about peace to them, to civilise them; that dream still lives, but it is not as strong as I once hoped it would be.”

Thor’s newfound anger towards his father twisted in his heart like a knot of barbed wire. “And when were you to tell him, to tell us, of this?”

“When both you and he were ready to know,” Odin replied. “When he especially would have been able to understand how precious he is to these realms and how important he is to the peace.”

“You meant to use him as a tool?” Thor demanded.

“Originally.”

Thor opened his mouth in protest, but his father cut him off:

“And this is why neither of you were ready to know. It was mercy that brought him here; I found him abandoned, and I took pity upon him. I saw an opportunity also for peace. I brought him back, and we all gave him our love.”

Thor closed his mouth, and he stabbed angrily at the potatoes on his plate.

“Thor,” Frigga said, and he looked to her. She was calm, composed. “We wanted to give the both of you the greatest gift we could: the gift of peace.”

“Peace in the form of lies?” Thor asked snippily.

“We did what we did because Loki is our son,” his mother said compassionately. “We wanted him to feel no different from anyone else.”

“He always felt different,” Thor said, contemptuous.

“You do not know how many times we wanted to tell you two of the truth, but we held our tongues for both your sakes,” she pressed.

Thor knew they were both right, that he was handling the news as badly as they had feared — and no doubt Loki was the worst off of the two — but he did not care for their pleading and begging for him to calm himself. He was a hair’s breadth away from walking out of the room.

“You have wronged not only him and myself, but yourselves as well,” Thor said quietly. “If you had told us the truth from the beginning, perhaps we would have been more accepting of the situation.”

“We did what we thought best for him,” Odin said.

“Best?” Thor said sourly. “How could you have lied to him and make him hate what he is? So many times we laughed and cursed at the savageness and monstrous nature of the frost giants, and the both of you let it happen.” He stood up, taking Mjölnir from her resting place by his chair, and stomping from the room; the cutlery and the glass in the windowpanes rattled with his heavy steps.

Thor strode blindly through Valaskjalf, tapping Mjölnir against his thigh in an effort to control his temper. His mind was a storm, and he wished for nothing more than for it to abate. And it would do so only with the return of Loki.

He needed to talk to Fandral.

Thor’s guards were silent shadows behind him as he reached the gilded doors to his chambers in the palace. He found Sif and Volstagg waiting for him beyond past the fountain, arguing with the guards recently been stationed outside his rooms.

Thor turned to the guards. “Stand outside the doors; I wish to speak in private.”

“I’m sorry, my prince, but we have been instructed by the Allfather—” the younger of the two guards began.

Thor cut across him. “These are my private chambers. Do your orders extend so far as you would watch over me whilst I sleep? Or bathe? Or would you still do so even if I choose to bring a woman back here to partake in my company?” Thor raised an eyebrow. “These are my rooms to do as I please in, and I will not be shepherded by anyone. If I wish to talk and drink with my friends and companions in private, it shall be so. It would not be wise to test my patience at this time.”

The older, more seasoned guard, shook his head at his junior; he knew from many years of experience Thor would get his way somehow or other. The younger guard looked as if he were going to once again protest, but then, wisely in Thor’s opinion, did as his elder did, and followed him out of the door.

“And where are your escorts?” Thor asked of Sif and Volstagg.

“I never had any,” Volstagg said cheerily. “Such are the benefits of an older and more mature man such as myself.”

“In other places throughout Valaskjalf,” was Sif’s lofty reply.

Thor grinned at them. “Let us then step into my suite; it is safer there.”

Thor opened the doors and strode in before the other two. A fire pit had been sunk into the floor, ringed by white rocks sitting on a bed of ashes. The polished black marble squeaked under their boots as they made their way to the gold couches lining the stairs to the pit. A flagon of wine had been placed on one of the tables, to which Volstagg went eagerly. He poured himself a horn before draining it quickly.

“Why have you summoned us?” Sif asked.

“I have not done the summoning; Fandral has,” Thor said, a smile curling around his mouth. “He has had an idea that, if it is as good as he claims, may have us Loki back once more.”

Sif nodded, and Volstagg looked up, excited.

It wasn’t a long wait before Fandral and Hogun entered together. Fandral had a spring in his step, whilst Hogun was the opposite image to him: silent, and his expression as grim as it always was.

“I can see we’re the last to arrive,” Fandral said, sweeping his gaze around the room as he sat himself neatly onto one of the couches.

“Yes, and so now tell us of what you have thought of,” Thor prompted, leaning forward with his hands clasped upon his knees.

“Upon Midgardr,” Fandral started, reaching for the wine flagon and pouring himself a healthy amount into one of the other horns, “when we were but children, we went to one of the sites where the mortals worshipped us; Uppsala, as you will recall.”

“Yes, I remember,” Thor muttered. A place of burial and worship, Uppsala had been an important place for the peoples of Midgardr who had held them as gods. Bright memories of silver hammers flashing at the throats of hundreds filled Thor’s mind, and the pride he had in knowing that the real artefact would be his to hold one day had burned through him like fire.

“Then you would remember of why Odin Allfather went there,” Fandral said. “An Ævaleysa had pierced the place, allowing passage between Midgardr and Jötunheimr possible.”

“But it was sealed by the Allfather himself,” Sif said suddenly. “Fandral, your memory may be strong, but we cannot hope to use it when it is closed.”

“That is where I think you are incorrect,” Fandral said, sipping at his wine. “The Allfather cast the spell to seal the Ævaleysa and, with the right skills, it can be opened again, such as the stitches holding a tear closed can be loosened.”

“I rather think you are forgetting that we cannot do such a thing; none of us can even summon so much as a single breath of wind using magic,” Volstagg interjected. “That was all Loki’s area of expertise. Not to mention that if we were foolish enough to dive headlong into the thing, it’d kill us.”

“But Loki was not the only caster of magic within Asgard,” Fandral said smoothly. “There is one thing that can outstrip the Allfather’s power in magic to open the Ævaleysa and also offer us warding, and that is power from something which he can never hope to obtain — the power of a woman’s magic.”

And the pieces fell into place.

Thor shook his head. “She would not lift a finger to help Loki.”

“I’m not asking her to come with us,” Fandral said in exasperation, “we are merely seeking a favour from her.”

“I’m missing something here, aren’t I?” Volstagg said, frowning.

“Fandral wishes to go to the sorceress Amora.” Hogun’s voice had been quiet, but everyone had heard it nevertheless. “He wants to obtain from her a spelltag to allow safe access through the Ævaleysa.”

“Exactly,” Fandral exclaimed, smiling.

“We must try, for my brother’s sake,” Thor said. “I thank you, my friends, for coming here this night. Fandral, if this works, both Loki and I would owe you a great debt. We’ll meet here at dawn to seek out the Enchantress Amora.”

* * *

#

* * *

It took an age of standing around before the door to the Enchantress’ home opened. At the sight of the group, she leant against the doorframe, and raised a shaped eyebrow at her visitors before she stood aside without a word. Thor, Sif, the Warriors Three, and their guards walked in.

Her home was a huge space. The front door opened onto a veranda ringing around a small garden. Paths of white flagstones led to a pond in the centre. Thor swore he saw a kèlpie — a horse-like creature with sky blue hide, a snow-white mane and tail that were constantly dripping with water and coal black eyes — peering at the company through an entanglement of weeds.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Prince Thor?” Amora asked, her long emerald dress sweeping over the flagstones as she led the way. Her voice was rich and lush, a spell all of its own.

“To what do I owe you to have me wait upon your doorstep for twenty minutes?” Thor asked coldly as he stomped in behind her.

“The place was a wreck. I had to tidy up,” she said unconvincingly. Reaching the end of the garden, there was a heavy wooden door that she opened with a light touch. It swung inwards to a room flooded with light. Drying herbs and animal pelts hung from the beams, and bottles of brightly coloured liquid lay on shelves around the room. In the corner, a cage with a venomously green snake inside stood, and the reptile itself was curled languidly around a tree branch.

“Stay outside the door,” Thor told the guards.

They nodded, and the door closed.

Amora faced the five of them with an inquisitive glance. She rested her hands on one of the many tables in the room, and Thor couldn’t help but notice her nails were painted a shimmering green.

“This is about Loki, is it not?” she said.

“Aye,” Thor said, ignoring her disrespect. “I wish to obtain from you a spelltag.”

“Oh, what is this, now?” she said, turning slowly on the spot. “You come to me now that your magician has gone?”

“Say another word against my brother and you will regret it,” Thor growled, pointing Mjölnir at her.

Amora scoffed. She had always infuriated him with her blatant disrespect, and he was in no mood to tolerate it now. “I have no wish to help Loki from any predicament he might find himself in, no matter how dire.”

“If you will not help us willingly, I will force you to,” he said, voice laced with threat.

But Amora was not impressed by this. “My services are granted to those whom catch my interests, and I have no want to help you when you plan on helping Loki of all people.”

“Have you no heart?” Volstagg said suddenly, but Sif threw him a warning glance.

Amora’s eyes glittered. “Loki and I despise each other, and our relationship has always been such.”

“I thought you were—” Fandral started, but Amora cut him off with a laugh.

“Do not tell me you believe the rumours? That you think that I was _sleeping_ with him?” she laughed. “Hardly. Whilst I may enjoy a good flirt with him, I would never lower myself to sleeping with him.”

Thor had no want to think about that, so he changed the subject somewhat. “I have gold if that is what you want in exchange for your magic.” He inched his cloak aside, showing the fat coin pouch tied to his belt.

“ _Gold_?” The Enchantress looked and sounded unimpressed. “When I distribute my work, it is because I find some personal interest or gain in the situation, not because I have been paid.”

“Alright,” Thor said, his grip on Mjölnir tightening. “I have tried asking you patiently, but I will be walking out of here with a spelltag. Give me one now, and you will be rewarded for your services to the crown prince.”

“Ah, here we come to the pulling of rank,” Amora mused, drumming her nails upon the tabletop. “What would you be planning to do with such a spelltag? I assume you plan on using it yourself — you have not brought in the Allfather’s name.”

 _Talking back means consideration_ , Thor thought, hopeful.

“An Ævaleysa upon Midgardr. We are to reopen what my father has sealed shut.”

“And I presume this is done without the Allfather’s knowledge?” Thor’s silence was her answer, and she smiled; her teeth were blindingly white. “I like it; defying old One-Eye to bring back an amusing pastime. You have my ear, now.”

“That was a rather sudden change of heart,” Sif said, her voice clipped.

Amora shrugged. She flicked her fingers, and a roll of parchment fell into her hand. She passed it to Thor, and he opened it. Runes were scrawled in a fine hand upon the thick paper; it tingled with magic.

“It’s a one way use,” Amora said. “If you wish to get back without the use of Bifröst, then it must be done with Loki’s help.” She smiled again, sinister. “Now be gone from here; my kèlpie is not privy to strangers within her territory. Those guards of yours might not last much longer.”

The five of them exited the room with stiff shoulders, Thor stuffing the spelltag into his pocket as he pushed the door open.

But then Amora stopped them with a cluck of her tongue. She gestured with her hand. “I want my gold, Odinson.”

Thor tossed it on the floor.

Her nose crinkled. “I thought princes were supposed to have manners. I honestly don’t understand what Lorelei sees in you, _Prince_.”

“By all means ask her when you’re next allowed to visit her cell,” Thor said over his shoulder, closing the door with a neat _snap_.

The guards looked relived to see them, and Thor saw the reason as to why at once. Within the middle of the pond, the kèlpie stood. No longer a horse, it had taken the shape of a beautiful, yet naked, woman; Thor couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. She ran her tongue over filed teeth as the seven visitors marched around the veranda and made their way from Amora’s home.

* * *

#

* * *

The next few days were spent to planning. The five of them had to be careful to hide their plans for Jötunheimr from other friends and family, and, in Thor’s case, the rest of Valaskjalf. The story was they were planning to go to Midgardr in search of battle with the Serpent Jörmungandr. But even with all his cautions, something in his mood did not go unnoticed by his parents, that infectious air of hopeful longing.

“I pray to the Norns you are not planning what I think you are,” Frigga said seriously, strolling with him through her private gardens upon her invitation. Birdsong filled the soft twilight, and the scent of flowers in full bloom laced the air. The humid air of summer made Thor’s hair stick to the back of his neck.

“It is nothing but an expedition to Midgardr,” Thor said paitently. “I have heard Jörmungandr is stirring within the depths of their oceans and, if he emerges, I wish to do battle with him. I need the distraction.”

Frigga sighed heavily, bending down to pluck a blue hyacinth from one of the beds to twist and twirl in her fingers. She brought it to her nose to sniff, and Thor waited for her to continue.

“It has been quite a while since he has raised his head,” Frigga murmured, “but I think that is not your true reason for wanting to travel to Midgardr.”

“The last time I looked, Midgardr was not Jötunheimr,” Thor said testily.

“The two realms are nestled within the same level,” Frigga said. “They are neighbours upon Yggdrasil’s branches.”

“As powerful as I may be,” Thor said, “I cannot transverse the realms without the use of Bifröst.”

Frigga crouched next to the hyacinth bed and began sorting through the flowers, searching for some unknown quality to Thor within the blooms. When she found them, she clipped with a pair of secateurs before laying the flowers carefully onto a square of cloth she produced from a satchel at her side. “I know you have your limitations; everyone does,” Frigga said, sorting the flowers neatly, “but your determination is something unrivalled. Once you set your eye onto something, you will not let it go easily. It’s only been two months since Loki’s … leaving, and I know you better than anyone. I know you will do everything in your power to get your brother back.”

“As I said before, my companions and I are going to Midgardr, one of the safest realms within the cosmos,” Thor said, insistent. “The mortals upon it are nothing more than children.”

“But you always manage to find something to stir the peace,” Frigga said with a long-suffering sigh.

“I will be sure to level my frustrations upon the Midgardr Serpent, then,” Thor reassured her.

Frigga shook her head, a small smile curling around her mouth. She was still picking through the flowers, and for a few minutes, the only sounds were of the rustling of the leaves, the voices of the birds, and the snips and clips of the secateurs.

* * *

#

* * *

The horses’ hooves pounded Bifröst as Thor and the warriors sped across the Bridge. It had taken huge efforts to persuade his father to leave the guards here for, he had argued, Midgardr was an unthreatening realm that would do them little harm, even if the humans tried to harm them. He had also said that, when they found Jörmungandr, they would only get in the way of his and the warrior’s valiant efforts to do it battle.

“The Serpent is _my_ enemy, Father,” Thor had explained a hundred times.

His father’s trust in him still had to be gained back, so he had instructed Heimdallr to watch over them whilst they were upon the realm. Heimdallr was going to be a problem, Thor knew. The second he and the warriors opened the Ævaleysa, Heimdallr would notify Odin, and they would be pulled back in a heartbeat.

Two solutions had been proposed. The first was that his father wouldn’t dare step foot upon Jötunheimr in the near future, due to the huge political instability there. This argument was cut down almost instantly. The Allfather didn’t have to use Bifröst to go there as much as Thor and the warriors needed it at that time. He could simply follow them through the Ævaleysa.

The second was they could go back to Amora. Thor had spent a long time haggling with the Enchantress and, he noted with frustration, she had enjoyed his distress immensely. Eventually, he had managed to make her bend under his demand, and she had given him a cloaking charm on a chain.

“As long as you wear this, Heimdallr will not be able to see you or your companions,” she said. “But a word of caution — it is a temporary charm, and it will run out within a month. Be sure to use it soon.”

With this in mind, Thor tucked the silver disc behind his chestplate as he dismounted his horse. Heimdallr was a silent sentinel at the entrance of the Himinbjörg Observatory, his golden armour reflecting the hundred million colours of the galaxies in the skies.

“Gatekeeper Heimdallr, may we pass?” Thor asked. “We wish to go to Uppsala.”

“As I have heard,” Heimdallr replied in his deep, rumbling voice. His golden eyes flickered over Thor and the warriors as they came behind him, weighed down with weapons and packs. Volstagg carried two over his shoulder; one was his own, and the other was Loki’s. If Heimdallr thought anything strange of the bag, which was one of Volstagg’s own and had been jammed full of extra food and weapons in an attempt to disguise the true contents of the pack, he said nothing of it. Thor hoped the deception had worked.

Thor strode into the Observatory, the warriors flanking him as Heimdallr ascended the stairs to Bifröst’s mechanism. He placed his huge sword into the slot, and lightning arched from the handle. The Observatory hummed to life, the walls grating and groaning as they began to turn.

“Be warned,” Heimdallr said, “the lives of the Midgardians are short and they are a forgetful race. Much has changed since you have last been there.”

Thor nodded.

Heimdallr pushed the sword into Bifröst’s mechanism, and Thor, Sif, Fandral, Volstagg, and Hogun were pulled into the beam. Rainbow colours swirled and roared around them as they hurtled through the cosmos. Vanaheimr and Álfheimr raced past them at terrifying speeds, and it was a matter of a few seconds before the realm of Midgardr came into view. The company shot towards one of the huge swathes of land, and they burst through the atmosphere, skies, and finally touched down in upon grassy tundra.

The first thing Thor noticed was the scent of pollution in the air, and he put a hand to his mouth and nose. Gases and foul smells were prevalent in the air, the scent Thor most often associated to the dwarfen mines of Niðavellir. What in the name of the Norns had these people done to their realm in a mere nine hundred years?

“This is Uppsala?” Sif asked, looking around with a curious eye.

“It must be,” Thor muttered. “Heimdallr is accurate in his setdowns.”

“I do not recognise it,” she said. “I remember it to be less … crowded.” She pointed to the settlement a little way away. It was far, far bigger than Thor remembered it.

“Regardless of the change of scene, the Ævaleysa will still be here. But first, we must establish ourselves; find a track or road, and then find our way to our destination.”

Finding the road was not hard at all. They came upon it within a couple of minutes: an expansion of black asphalt that stretched into a huge city. They walked along the centre of it, confused as to when metal transports shouted at them for doing so.

“These Midgardians are strange,” Volstagg commented.

“Hörni era rövhål, varför tar ni inte gångvägen istället?” a man shouted at them, jabbing at a smaller raised road running parallel to the main one. “Gå där!”

Thor gave a look of perplexed amazement, and led the way to the smaller road. “We get shouted at for walking down a perfectly good expanse of road?” Fandral asked, shaking his head in sheer amazement. “These people….”

“This is their realm, so we must abide by their laws, even if it means we must walk along this footpath of theirs instead,” Hogun said.

Thor shrugged. “Not as much room as I would like, but we cannot complain. Come; let us go to the burial mounds.”

People stared at them as they made their way along the roads, their armour and weapons glinting in the sun, their cloaks and furs flapping around their ankles.

After asking for directions to the temple, they came across a huge building made of red stone surrounded by a lawn. Thor cocked his head as he looked at it, trying to ignore the rumble and roar of vehicles behind him, and the noisy sounds of construction from a building across the road.

“The temple is not in the same position as it was before,” Thor noted.

“I think it might be because it is _not_ the temple we are looking for,” Sif said pointing to a plaque on the building. ‘Efs i Mikaelskyrkan’ was what it read in Midgardian runes.

“Then we keep looking,” Thor proclaimed. He looked around with a grimace of despair. “This is not going to be as easy as I thought.”

Eventually, after asking after the burial mounds — as that was where the Uppsala Temple had been near — they were pointed to the north of the city. The five of them trudged off, looking around with wide eyes at the city that was now so different to the two dozen wood and turf houses that had been on the site the last time they had visited. Houses started to get fewer and further between as they walked on, following signs marked ‘Gamla Uppsala’ as they had been instructed to do. The roads started to get narrower as well, the space quieter. They walked up a gravel road after Sif asked a woman where to go.

The road opened up onto a space that held more vehicles, parked in front of a red sign that read ‘Gamla Uppsala Museum’ in white writing. The building it stood next to was boat-shaped and made of pale wood. Behind it were rolling fields dotted with small hills: burial mounds.

“What is this?” Fandral said. “‘Museum’? Surely a thousand years is not that long enough a time to warrant the erection of a _museum_. That would imply the site is old.”

“It is old to the Midgardians,” Hogun pointed out. “They only live about forty years.”

“Eighty is the new life expectancy for many rich areas,” Sif corrected.

“Ahh.”

A long white vehicle marked _Swebus_ pulled around the corner, a harsh rumble echoing from its hull. Thor glanced over as it stopped along the road, and humans climbed out of it and started towards the boat-shaped building.

“Welcome to Gamla Uppsala, which means ‘Old Uppsala’!” a bright and cheerful woman said as she exited the building. Her words were very carefully pronounced, as if the language she was speaking was not her first. “My name is Tia, and I’ll be your guide today. Are you guys all from the States?”

Several people nodded, but there were a few other countries were named from some of the tourists as they corrected the woman as to where they were from.

“The UK, Germany, Lithuania, and oh, Australia? Quite a distance! And are you all enjoying Sweden and Uppsala?”

There were murmurs of ‘yes’ and several nods.

“Wonderful!” Tia said, smiling. “Here is a map of the site with information on the history it holds, including as the sites of several burials and religious rituals practiced by the ancient Norse.”

“Oh look over there, honey!” another woman said, tapping on a man’s arm and pointing at Thor and the warriors as they marched towards the building. “Excuse me, miss, who are they dressed as? Are they Viking gods?”

Tia looked up at Thor, and a frown pulled at her face. “I’m sorry sirs, madam; are you looking for photo opportunities with the tourists? I’m afraid without a licence from the premises we cannot allow you to do so for a charge.”

“Photos?” Thor said in the Allspeak, frowning. “I know not what you mean.”

Tia blinked. “Är ni från England? Er svenska har en brittisk accent….”

“I think she’s asking whether we are from the Isle of Britain,” Fandral said in the Æsir tongue.

Volstagg gave a chuckle and stepped forward. “Good lady, we seem to have lost our bearings. Please, would you be able to direct us to the high priest in charge of the temple? We must speak with him.”

“Templet? The temple has not been here for centuries. Are you British? That accent …”

“We are of Asgard, gentle lady,” Thor said. “I am Thor Odinson, heir to the throne of Asgard and future warden of the Nine Realms, and these are my companions, the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three. Our situation is dire, and we are in great need of assistance to find the Jötunheimr Ævaleysa that we showed the people of this settlement upon its discovery. I humbly request you take us to your high priest.”

Tia’s lips were pursed, a look of worry lining her face. “I’m sorry, _Jötunheimr_? Is this part of an event of some sort? Or is it part of a god presentation for the tourists? Are … are you alright?”

“Thor?” the tourist woman said. “Look honey! Quickly, take a picture of me and the God of Thunder!” She pushed a small black rectangle into her husband’s hand and bustled over to Thor who felt perplexed. “Oh smile, handsome!” the woman said cheerily. “You mustn’t look so sombre!”

“How do I do this again?” the man asked, fiddling with the rectangle.

“The camera icon, dear; the grey one. Tap the button when the screen comes up.”

Thor only looked more confused as the man tapped the device as the woman latched herself around his upper arm, and he jumped with surprise. This mere human dared to be so intimate with him?

“Beautiful picture, Liz, it’ll look great in the album.”

“Thor, these mortals are mad,” Sif hissed to him from the corner of her mouth. “They will not help us; we are wasting our time with them.”

“Yes, we must move our search inside,” Fandral said.

“Excuse us,” Thor muttered, detaching himself from the woman and trying to go into the building, just to be blocked by more people.

“May I take a picture as well? My son is quite the Norse mythology enthusiast, and it would please him ever so greatly to have a picture.”

“You’re so ripped, mister; I need this as a keepsake. And Mum said there were no real Vikings in Sweden anymore….”

“Ah! Mejalnear! I must try to lift it and test my strength!”

“Please, please!” Tia shouted, trying to calm the tourists down as they clamoured around Thor and the warriors who were backing away. “The tour must be started before the next group arrive. So please, may I have your _undivided_ attention on me whilst I give you some more information before we continue further into the site.”

The Æsir managed to slip away and regroup quickly after that, but Thor especially was dragged aside a few more times and told to smile for photos. After finally getting away, he said, “I think we should take matters into our own hands. If this is the sort of undignified reception we receive now from the mortals, I have no patience for a second round of it. Every second of delay, Loki suffers all the more.”

“I agree; that was tedious,” Fandral said with a shudder. “If we must collect our bearings and find the Ævaleysa for ourselves once more, then so be it.”

The five of them trudged around the boat building, and came along a gravel path leading to the burial mounds. Many people stared at them; some of them were locals, Thor guessed, as they were not pointing their black rectangles at them. They were jogging and walking under the sun with children and prams. There were fewer burial mounds than they remembered, the space was now open fields, and the mounds were smaller. They turned down a side path, ignoring the stares of a woman with strings in her ears as she ran by them. Thor heard some sort of music coming from them, a heavy synthesised beat which was grating and something he found highly unpleasant. A fence separated the mounds from the path, and they hopped over it easily, their feet sinking into the high, unkempt grass on the other side. Several other people who were walking along the path gave them dubious looks, and a child said, “Hörru! Ni kan inte gå där!”

“This way,” Hogun said.

They trudged through the mounds covered in yellow and purple flowers, guided by faint stirrings of memory to where the Jötunheimr Ævaleysa had been found by accident so many centuries ago.

“There is a chill in the air,” Thor muttered after a few minutes. “It contradicts the warmth of the summer.”

“That is the call of Jötunheimr, my friend!” Volstagg laughed, slapping Thor on the back heartily. “And it is the call of your brother. We shall be reunited soon, and bound for many more adventures across the realms.”

“Yes,” Sif agreed. “The dwarfs have recently claimed to have found a great treasure deep beneath Niðavellir’s mountains — we must go and investigate.”

“I like it,” Fandral said, grinning.

It was Hogun who found the Ævaleysa, nestled between two of the mounds that Thor remembered to be taller and wider.

“Thor.”

Thor strode forward, taking the spelltag from his belt, and pushing it into the space Hogun had indicated. His fingers were chilled as he pushed it through the rippling air, and then, gripping onto his friends’ arms, Thor fell with them through a swirl of rainbow colours into the howling snows of Jötunheimr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to **[miravisu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/miravisu)** for helping with the Swedish. To those who can't understand what's being said, here're some translations:
> 
> "Hörni, varför tar ni skitstövlar inte gångvägen istället? Gå där!" — "Hey, how about you arseholes get onto the footpath? Walk there!"  
> "Är ni från England? Er svenska har en brittisk accent..." — "Are you from England? You sound British..."  
> "Templet?"— "The Temple?"  
> "Hörru! Ni kan inte gå dä!"— "Hey! You can't go over there!"


	9. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 25-11-2015**

**965 A.D.**

“What were you thinking?” Frigga demanded. “Bringing that … that _thing_ here?”

“He is but a baby, two weeks old at the most, and he had been abandoned.” Odin looked at the child in his arms, the innocent, seemingly Æsir babe who was fast asleep within its rough fur blankets, a thumb slipped between its lips. “He is remarkably small, a runt perhaps.”

“Runt?” Frigga said, appalled. “When I was a girl, I had a dog that was considered the runt of the litter when he was born, but by the time he had grown, he was just as strong as his siblings. An undersized birth, perhaps, but babies grow.” Frigga sat down heavily, shaking with rage. Had the pain of Odin losing his eye and the stress of the war driven him mad?

“Why do you object to my wishes so much?”

“Because it is the spawn of Laufey! And you want to … to _raise_ it … alongside _Thor_? I have listened to many of your harebrained schemes before and supported most, but this is a new level of insanity. Kill the thing before it becomes dangerous; this is my counsel.”

Odin sighed and sat next to her on the bed, still holding that Norns-forsaken monster as gently as he had held Thor when he had been the same age. The tenderness of his actions made Frigga want to shake the sense back into him.

“I hope to build a more permanent peace between Asgard and Jötunheimr through this child,” Odin said after a pause. “It is if the Norns themselves have blessed our victory in this war.”

“It is a monster,” Frigga whispered harshly, “and I will not raise my son next to such a thing.”

“Our son,” Odin said gently. “It will be good for him to have a brother. You know how difficult it was for you to carry him—”

“But I did so, and I would rather endure a hundred more miscarriages than to let that thing within a thousand miles of Thor,” Frigga said venomously.

“Such is the argument of nature versus nurture,” Odin sighed. “We would raise him a prince of our realm, teach him to think as an ás, and teach him to be civilised. It is my hope that one day he will be an ambassador of our realm to Jötunheimr, perhaps he could even rule it. He and Thor would be brother kings; united in the cause of peace with Thor on the throne of Asgard, and this child on the throne of Jötunheimr.”

“What you are suggesting is madness,” Frigga said. “It would be ridiculed; mocked and spat upon because of what it is, but yet you think it will obey your commands as if it were truly our own blood? Truly Æsir? It will be driven away because of what it is.”

“His nature can be hidden from everyone, even from himself,” Odin said. “He would grow up no differently than Thor, and he will love and adore this realm and everyone who is a part of it, including you and our son. Do you not wish for another child, Frigga?”

“I wish for another child from _you_ , from _my_ womb,” Frigga said sharply. “Not this creature from a frozen realm full of vile life.”

“He is innocent.”

“But for how long? Frost giants are savage, and it will only be so long before it will awaken to what its ancestors are so renowned for; it is in their very blood.”

“Please.”

Frigga had heard Odin’s current tone only a handful of times, and it was those times that made her heart falter and clench.

“I wish this for not only the peace of the next five thousand years this child will live for, but for the next five millions years afterward. And it will be because of your courage, my love. You shall be remembered forever as the Mother of Peace. We must all make sacrifices, and this will be ours.”

Peace was something Frigga held dear to her heart, and she swallowed as she looked down upon the still sleeping baby held in her husband’s arms. She laid the back of her hand against its cheek, flinching at the warmth coming from its tiny body; had Odin changed that about it, too?

“He has powerful magic, a born skin changer,” Odin offered in explanation. “I have added my own to it, blocking his shifting ability and burying it deep within his mind. Should he stumble across it, he would turn away from it; I have protected it. Only myself or a powerful outside influence would be able to break the protection; an outside influence such as another jötunn if it were to lay a hand upon him in the intent to harm, or the Casket.”

“Does it have a name?” Frigga asked sharply.

Odin shook his head. “To throw a child away without first giving him a name … how sad.”

“Do you have a name for it?”

“ _Him_ , Frigga. And yes. His name shall be Loki. Loki Odinson.”


	10. Chapter Eight - Conflict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 25-11-2015**

After the eisbock incident, Loki and Býleistr’s relationship had deteriorated. They had fought, with both words and actions, which had resulted in blood. When that hadn’t gotten anywhere, they ignored each other, and that in itself was enough to assure Loki that Býleistr’s words to him had been just what he had originally thought: drunken nonsense. Their dislike of each other had settled between them into utter silence, and they each did their best to avoid the other as much as possible.

It was an arrangement that suited Loki perfectly. Without having to worry about Býleistr breathing down the back of his neck, the other nights of the celebrations had passed without too much incident, but Loki was thoroughly glad when they were over.

But the end of the celebrations had brought more problems forth in the form of the _hólmgangar_ , something he had to suffer through in utter silence. If the point was to narrow his choices down by finding the strongest of them, then they were having the opposite effect. Loki was making a list in head about which of the she-jötnar in particular to avoid. But that wasn’t to mention that the strongest of the pack, the ten that had been picked out to him the night of the formal introduction, had not yet fought. Tradition, he gathered. As such, he was keeping a close eye on them in particular; especially on Thorn and two other highborn that had talked to him during the celebrations.

But his watching, which he had thought discreet, had apparently been misjudged, and it had also been misinterpreted as interest. Something he were to find out three nights after the presentation.

He had been summoned to court — part of his newly found duties as a prince of the realm, and, he suspected, so Laufey and Fárbauti could keep an eye on him. As such, he was bidden to wear his finery as a show of respect to those coming to see the king, which in itself was an honour to those attending.

“Your Highness,” Bryja said, bowing as she entered the room, “I have been bidden to bring you these gifts from your abundance of admirers. They have been very stricken with you.” In her arms was a large tray full of different objects and trinkets.

Loki looked to them and snorted. “Stricken with lust for my position,” he said dismissively, fastening his new vambraces on. “I doubt it is for me personally.”

Bryja looked like she wanted to protest, but thought better of it after seeing Loki’s storm cloud of an expression. She laid the items neatly on the table. He crossed to them, picking the things up and rolling them between his fingers. The first thing he handled was a small and beautifully carved flint statue depicting one of Jötunheimr’s creatures. It had a mane running down from the crown of its head to its shoulder blades; a long, whip-like tail flew out behind the figure. Huge paws tipped with sharp claws reached forward in mid-stride. The long snout was curled a soft snarl of evident concentration, and tusks curved from its mouth. Loki recognised it as a káshta — one of the jötnar mounts which he, in his mind, equated to horses. Tied around the neck, like a collar, was a note on a slip of thin hide. He slid the note out, and read the words carefully printed upon it in the Allspeak:

 

_My Dearest Prince,_

_Jötunheimr sings of your return, and my being sings especially loudly with happiness. Please, accept this gift as a token of my affections for you._

_– Asvid, of the House of Bolthorn._

 

Loki snorted again with derision as he placed down the statue and burnt the note to a cinder with a quick flame. Bryja jumped with alarm, but said nothing as Loki continued to sort through the gifts and tokens. They were finely made, but held no interest to him. Glass charms to tie in his hair, rings to pierce his ears with, bones carved with ancient spells for  _seiðr_  working, dragon scales that changed their colours depending on which angle they caught the light, and precious shimmering powders in small glass bottles were just some of the things given to him. Every note he read spoke of undying affections and feelings towards him, and he found the declarations of love they spoke highly amusing.

“Well,” he said, putting down a set of obsidian runestones, “their gifts and feelings are wasted. Destroy them.”

“Your Highness?” Bryja blustered, staring in mute shock at Loki as he crossed his arms.

“Are you deaf? I said for you to destroy them.”

“Are you sure you do not want to reconsider, Your Highness? Some of these things are very precious, after all.”

“Do I have to ask you a third time?!” Loki demanded thunderously. “I said destroy everything, down to the last grain of powder.”

“O … of course, Your Highness. I shall see to it myself.”

Loki watched her collect the things back onto the tray they had been brought in on, and didn’t take his eyes off her until the door had closed. He was quiet for a few seconds, then pressed his knuckles into his forehead before he began to laugh softly. It continued to grow in volume until it echoed loudly.

* * *

#

* * *

Eventually, he was summoned to the courts. Loki was late as it already was, and had instead sought to delay his coming. A page came to deliver Laufey’s request that he make his way to the throne room at once. It was the third message that evening.

Loki swept through the corridors, the fur mantle around his shoulders fluttering behind him. It wasn’t for warmth — more so it was so he wouldn’t feel so naked. The page had trouble following behind him, jogging to keep pace with Loki’s long, quick strides. Loki glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and turned down a side corridor so to enter the throne room from an antechamber. He paused for a second, steeled himself, then opened the door.

“… land is mine, my great king. Please, I simply ask for what is my due.”

“With the greatest respect, Your Majesty, what he says is false. The land and what is on it belongs to my family. My family has tended to it for centuries—”

“Bow to Prince Loki Laufeyson,” Laufey’s herald called, “second born to King Laufey Náljarson, the Returned,  _Hornǫðlask_ , and  _Hamramr_.”

Loki ignored the court as they dipped their heads. He stalked in front of the thrones sat upon the high dais, pausing for as long as he could get away with to expose his throat in submission to Laufey and then Fárbauti. Then he took his place next to Fárbauti’s side, as was his due as the second prince. Býleistr was standing next to Laufey’s side, and Helblindi Loki knew to be with his tutor. Býleistr ignored him.

Laufey waved at the jötunn who had been speaking. “Continue.”

The first of the two jötnar, who was squat and had a nose like a squashed tomato, dipped his head once again as the court rose behind him. “My king, the land is what my family earns their living from. We breed eikþyrnir, Your Majesty, and have done for fifty millennia. If the land is taken from us, we will have lost near everything.”

“The land was promised to me by Galar-Gräfin,” the second argued. “My claim comes of an oath sworn by the _gräfin_ and myself, and I have worked for the past two hundred years to fulfil my side.”

Loki sighed heavily. How many times had he heard the same sorts of grievances in Asgard’s court? He was quickly growing bored; what with the fact he couldn’t understand a large majority of what was being said, and just not giving a damn about the running of the realm.

Arguments were flung back and forth between the two, growing in volume and heat until the two jötnar were almost at each other’s throats.

“Enough,” Laufey finally snarled, and silence fell. He bore his own teeth before saying, “You will keep your land, Threkar. It is yours by payment.”

The first jötunn’s eyes widened, and he bowed deeply. “My king, I thank you. May your name be ever glorious.”

The second jötunn looked none too happy. Laufey looked towards him. “I recognise you have fulfilled a contract, and as such expect a reward. You will not leave here empty handed. You will be given training and wealth enough for you to receive the teaching necessary to learn animal husbandry so you may profit from such in the future. This will be paid for by Galar-Gräfin to compensate for this inconvenience.”

The second jötunn too bowed. “You are too kind, my king. Thank you.”

But Laufey was done with them. He waved them away, and the two bowed again before backing out of the room.

“Send the next in,” Laufey said to his herald.

As the time stretched by, Loki found himself playing with the light from the illuminating ice, bending it to flash and shine in eyes. He was rewarded with shakings of heads and growls of annoyance to jötnar actively moving around the room to find better positions to stand in to avoid the persistent reflections. Laufey shot Loki a look after this had happened a few times, and he reluctantly ended his spell.

Many of the cases brought forth were but minor squabbles like the one Loki had walked in on. Some of them Laufey deigned to take sides, but he did in a few. One of the cases, Loki was sure, was to do with a murder that had happened during the celebrations. Nearly a half hour of arguments and pleading passed between the convicted and the family of the dead, and it was eventually brought down to the banishment of the murderer to the Skógarmaðrfit. Whilst that may have been the most exciting thing that had happened, nothing of real interest happened to Loki until the very end.

He was the son of a minor _graf_ , a tall jötunn who was all muscle and brawn that had done nothing but stare intently at Loki for the past two and a half hours. Loki had tried to shine light in his face at some point, but the jötunn merely put a hand to his brow to shade his eyes. Loki had huffed in annoyance, and had moved to his next victim. As the court was called for dismissal, the jötunn stood and walked resolutely to the foot of the throne, standing ridged as every eye fell upon him. The court fell quiet.

“Loki Laufeyson,” the jötunn said, “I challenge you to _hólmganga_.”

Loki lifted his head, his neck stiff and protesting; he flexed his fingers at the same moment. “State your reasons.”

“You must prove yourself to me your right to wear the horns of rulers. I have heard stories of what transpired after the nights were you given back by Asgard, and how you were reduced to nothing but a broken beggar who mewled for mercy.”

Loki bristled with anger, stood, and padded down the stairs. A growl rumbled in his throat as he beared down on the jötunn, his face coming within a foot of his. He was young, Loki thought, and arrogant, but he didn’t miss the flick of his eyes to his horns.

Loki’s lip curled at that, and his teeth flashed. “I accept your challenge of _hólmganga_. I will fight you at dawn.”

* * *

#

* * *

The turnout to the _hólmganga_ made Loki grimace in despair. He had hoped maybe a hundred jötnar or so to show, but the number was closer to two thousand. They wanted to see their prince fight; they wanted to assert his strength. Folding his expression into one of neutral interest, he strode through the tunnel. He wore leather armour, leather vambraces and greaves, and his ringmail backed _kjilt_. The gold bands from his horns had also been slid off carefully. His hair was brushed from his face and lay flat against his skull, held down by a limewater solution. His claws had been sharpened on both his hands and his feet.

The crowd screamed and roared from their raised stands as he came into the cool light of the moons, and it took all his effort not to shudder. His eyes involuntary slid to the royal stands, to where Laufey, Fárbauti, Býleistr, and Helblindi sat back in shadow; he could only see the outlines of the horns of Laufey and Býleistr, along with the red glint of four sets of eyes.

The other jötunn walked through the tunnel on the opposite side of the arena, pushing his hair from his eyes, and snarling quietly in Loki’s direction. Loki stared back at him as coldly as he could, head held high and flexing his fingers. A rumbling growl awoke in his throat; that was all he was, now: animalistic. It hadn’t escaped his notice how often he did it when threatening someone. He was like the wolf on the stone he now usually wore around his neck.

General Thjazi stepped up to the podium in the box, and the noise of the crowd died down at once. “This _hólmganga_ between his Royal Highness, Prince Loki Laufeyson, second born to King Laufey Náljarson of Jötunheimr, and Herkir Gangasson, fourth born to Graf Gangr Kolason, has been recognised by both parties. The official rules apply to this _hólmganga_ , and have not been subjected to change. Speak now if there are any objections.”

Nobody said anything.

Then Herkir charged, bellowing. He swung a fist at Loki, who stepped away with a graceful movement. There were stirrings of discontent from the crowd as Herkir stumbled to a halt, looking at Loki with a glint in his eye.

“Coward! You are weak-hearted to shy from my blow!”

Loki said nothing.

Herkir came at him again, and again, Loki moved away. The crowd hissed in anger, but Loki did his best to block them from his mind. Whatever the jötnar thought, Loki was more interested in his want for self-preservation. His mind was already fliting through possible strategies he could implement.

Twice more Herkir swung at him, and, when Loki moved behind him with a quick sidestep, he struck. His arm shot out for Herkir’s hair, and he gripped it tightly. He wrenched the jötunn back, planting a knee into the small of his back before throwing him across the area with a roar.

The jötunn fell heavily, rolling at the wall’s base, and, to Loki’s annoyance, stood up. His eyes were watering in pain, and he spat a glob of blue blood from his mouth; he’d bitten his tongue. “Finally, a reaction,” he said jeeringly.

Loki continued to say nothing. He was itching to take up one of his weapons from the negative space and plunge it into the side of the jötunn’s neck, but he didn’t dare do it. The knowledge Laufey was watching held him back, and some part of him wanted to prove to the jötunn king his strength. This would be bloody, he promised himself.

He moved into a fighting stance: low to the ground with his feet spread, one fist held in front of his face, and the other ready by his side. “Come get me, _þú stykki af skít_.”

You piece of shit.

The jötunn charged, and, just as Loki had suspected he would, aimed a swipe at him. Loki sidestepped gracefully, then rammed his elbow into the jötunn’s nose. Herkir brought his arm around in an attempt to hit Loki across the face. It was a messy strike, at complete opposites with Loki’s smooth movements born of centuries of practice. Loki easily blocked Herkir’s blow with his forearms before pushing him back with a foot to the stomach. He stalked forward with a snarl, and hit the jötunn in the centre of his chest, two fast and hard strikes with a fist and an elbow, before kneeing him in the groin. Herkir doubled over, and Loki brought his other fist up, catching Herkir under the jaw. Herkir landed heavily, the air forced from his lungs in an  _oomph!_

The familiar routine of the moves was comforting to Loki, as if he were back in Asgard practicing with the ringmasters. He crouched low, baring his teeth as he pressed his claws into the jötunn’s throat. “Veita,” Loki commanded. Yield.

But Herkir still had a spark of defiance left in him. He rammed his knee into the back of Loki’s thigh, and Loki grunted in pain. The offset of balance allowed the jötunn to get out from under him. Loki turned his fall into a compacted roll, and so he too was back on his feet. But before he managed to straighten up, the jötunn was onto him again. He swiped at Loki, and his claws caught him on his left shoulder. Loki snarled as the claws tore his shoulder open. Whilst he was preoccupied, Herkir made a grab for one of his horns. Loki, used to such a move from his Æsir helm, twisted away, pivoting on his heel. His momentum allowed him to fully turn and deliver a well-aimed punch at Herkir’s face. Herkir’s nose shattered under his fist, but Loki wasn’t yet finished with him. He struck fast with his weakened left hand, jabbing the jötunn in the throat.

It was a drill he had practiced hundreds of times over the decades, and one he had perfected very quickly. Herkir’s arm shot up to protect the injured area, something that was a subconscious reflex, but Loki caught the jötunn’s wrist before he had even the chance to get close to his throat. Pivoting on his heel, Loki hooked his leg around one of Herkir’s, brought the arm over his shoulder so the elbow rested there, and jerked the wrist downward to bring the back of his hand to his heart. The elbow broke with a sickening  _crack!_ , but Loki did not stop there. He pulled the arm over his head and threw the jötunn around his body onto the ground. His head smashed into the rock floor beneath them.

Herkir roared in pain, but the crowd shrieked and shouted and bellowed with approval. Herkir struggled to get back to his feet, but Loki kicked him under the jaw with a growl of warning. He shoved his foot into his throat, pressing down none too lightly. Herkir choked as the claws dug into his neck.

Loki, who wasn’t even panting, said once again, “Veita.”

“Veita,” the jötunn repeated, his muscles unwinding, and he slumped, defeated, onto the ground. His face was a bloody mess, and his teeth were stained with blood. Bruises were already blossoming on his chest.

“Jafnmenni,” General Thjazi announced. “The victory goes to Prince Loki Laufeyson.”

Loki kept his eyes resolutely on Herkir as he backed away, half-expecting him to rise again, but the jötunn remained slumped; a tremor wracked his frame. Loki breathed in deeply before he looked up towards the royal box, turned, and left the arena.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki had tried to leave the colosseum before the healer on duty could attend to his shredded shoulder, but was stopped by two of the royal guard in the tunnel leading to the surface. He hissed at them to move, but they didn’t so much as twitch.

“Loki.” Fárbauti came down the stairway behind the guards. Loki turned away from her. He didn’t want to talk to her or any of his blood kin.

“What?” he snapped.

She came to him, touching his shoulder lightly. He flinched back, covering the wound with his hand.

“That needs to be tended to,” Fárbauti said. “You of all people are the most at risk of infection. You haven’t had the exposure to our bacteria as everyone else has.”

“I can heal it myself,” Loki said.

“No. That will scar, and it’ll be the first of many.” She gestured to her own arms, marked from centuries of fighting.

The guards closed ranks behind him, and Loki had no choice but to follow Fárbauti. Nothing was said between them, but the silence was heavy. Loki knew she had words for him.

The room that Fárbauti led him to was further back towards the colosseum floor. She opened the door and bid him enter.

“Stay out here,” she said to the guards. They nodded and closed the door.

“My queen-consort. My prince.”

A slight she-jötunn bowed lowly to them. She was of the lower nobility, her hair long enough to reach her hips, and petite enough that the top of her head barely brushed Loki’s chin.

“Please, my prince, if you could sit.” She gestured to one of the chairs.

Loki sat. The she-jötunn crossed to a box full of medical supplies and took out a couple of bottles of ointment and a roll of bandages. She then came to sit on a stool by Loki’s side, and went about cleaning the wounds. Once the blood was cleaned away, she put a sour smelling ointment in the wounds, and Loki bit back a hiss as she rubbed it in. To take his mind away from the pain, he watched Fárbauti. She wasn’t looking at him, merely walking around the room and waiting for the she-jötunn to finish her work.

“Loki,” Fárbauti started after a couple more minutes of silence. “Well done.”

“I doubt this is what you want to say,” Loki said, clipped. He hissed again as the she-jötunn prodded a little too hard at one of the wounds. She bit her lip and continued to work, holding his arm a little tighter as she finished with the ointment. “Spit it out and be done with it,” Loki said to Fárbauti.

Fárbauti sighed. “You broke his elbow, nose, fractured one of his cheekbones, and tore a ligament in his calf.”

Loki merely shrugged. “The idiot shouldn’t have challenged me, then.”

The she-jötunn wrapped his shoulder with the bandages before opening the second bottle. The paste inside with was milky white and didn’t smell of anything. She up-ended the bottle and rubbed the paste over the bandages and skin. It was freezing, even to his jötunn flesh, but it took away the pain from the wound. The bandages became stiff almost instantly, sticking them to each other. When she pulled away, Loki prodded at it. It wasn’t cold, he realised, it was numbing. Numbing glue. It didn’t escape his notice as to how much more effective it was than any sort of Æsir medicine had had on him.

Fárbauti lifted her chin. “That is all, Salfang.”

The she-jötunn stood, bowed her head to them both, and then left. The door clicked shut, echoing in the room.

The silence lasted for another half minute before Fárbauti opened her mouth again. “Loki, it was over in less than two minutes,” she said.

“Most fights barely last more than half of one,” Loki pointed out.

“The _hólmgangar_ last longer for there’s more at stake than pride,” Fárbauti said. “People become far more determined to win when the possibility of lost rank comes into play. It was an exceptional performance on your part.”

Loki drummed his fingers against his upper arm. “I’m hearing a ‘but’ to my actions.”

Fárbauti sighed. “There is a but — your fighting style is too Æsir-ian.”

“What did you expect?” Loki asked. “I have been trained in Æsir-ian combat since I was three centuries old.”

“We are walking on thin ice here,” Fárbauti said, insistent. “It is so important that you separate yourself from Asgard in every way possible. Loki, you must think about your actions. Your position is delicate, and if you do not act as if it is, you are going to kill us all. The common people are already stirring enough as it is. There too have been reports throughout the realm that many are starting to think as Þrymheimr thinks — that we cannot control you, and we, as the royal family, are losing our power. For not only our sakes, but the sakes of thousands of others, you _must_ play the long game. I don’t care if you start to believe it or not, but you must do it to make everyone else believe. It is vital to everyone’s survival, including yours.”

Loki leant forward, leering. “But what if that’s what I want? To kill everyone last one of you?”

Fárbauti seemed unfazed by his threat. “I don’t think you would call war upon our heads to do so; you’re too smart to do that, your sense of self-preservation too strong.”

Loki made a  _tsk_  sound in the back of his throat, and looked heavily at the ground.

Fárbauti was still looking solemn. “You must not shift to your Æsir form where anyone can see you, not even the servants. Rumours would start to go around, and we would risk losing power and subsequently our position and safety. You will present yourself to Jötunheimr on a regular basis, and you will act the part the people expect: that of a young, prime male of royal blood. You will embrace the culture, and that means attending _hólmgangar_ regularly, and fighting without Æsir combat techniques, speaking in the Jötunn tongue in public, accepting and being civilised with your family, choosing a woman, and you will act as if there is nothing wrong.”

Loki stood up and turned to leave.

Fárbauti said, “Then I take it that we have come to an understanding, yes?”

“Já,” Loki bit back, “ _Dam_.”

“I understand I am asking much of you,” Fárbauti said after a few heartbeats of silence. “I wish you weren’t in this position, Loki. I wish it with all of my heart.”

“Wishing isn’t going to change anything,” Loki said. He walked past her without a word.

He rubbed his shoulder as he made his way to the surface, careful this time to watch out for any potential interception. He kept to the shadows, eager to make it out of the building alone. He could hear the crowds exiting, talking in animated tones about the fight. From the snatches of conversation, Loki heard some praising his fighting, his strength, and others muttering dubiously.

“Æsir blood,” Loki heard one jötunn say.

“Shh!”

But Loki was past caring. He came to one of the windows on the upper floors, watching as everyone left — he would go when every last one of them had gone. Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms and looked onto the crowd below. A couple of jötnar saw him in the window, and he shrank back as they pointed him out to friends and family.

_Just go. Please just go._

A flash.

Loki’s head snapped up. Beyond Útgarðar, far beyond it, lightning had struck. Struck in a pattern he was all too familiar with.

_Oh Norns…._

Thor.


	11. Chapter Nine - The Wastelands of Jötunheimr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 29-11-2015**

Thor didn’t know who was more surprised at their all-too sudden arrival on Jötunheimr — he and his companions, or the three jötunns who had been leaning idly against the clump of rocks the Æsir had stumbled from. Roars rent the air as they shaped ice weapons on their arms, but Sif and the Warriors Three leapt to dispatch them.

“Leave one!”

Two were killed quickly; the third the warriors hounded until his back was pressed against the rocks. He drew his lip back to expose his teeth, his shoulders bristling with spikes of ice as he crouched low, ready to spring. Sif was the brave one who darted forward. The jötunn swiped at her, but she ducked nimbly under his reach, and slashed at his arm with a cry. Half of his forearm went flying, and he fell to his knees, roaring in agony as Sif pulled his jaw back and slid her sword underneath it.

“Now,” Thor said, holding Mjölnir’s handle tightly as he advanced on the jötunn, “my brother — where is he?” The maps of Jötunheimr that were in Asgard were millennia old and most probably out of date, but moreover, with the monotonous landscape that stretched for kilometres and kilometres in each direction, they would have been hard-pressed to find a starting point. They needed this jötunn to provide it.

“Brother?” the giant wheezed. “My prince is no brother of yours.”

“He is not your prince!” Thor raised the hammer, and demanded once more, “Where is my brother — Prince Loki Odinson of Asgard?”

The jötunn merely laughed. “I am not a traitor to the crown.”

“Tell me now, and you will die a clean death.”

The jötunn closed his eyes languidly. “Kjaftæði, skrímsl.”

Sif dug the sword into the jötunn’s jaw. “Where is Prince Loki?” she hissed. “ _Where?_ ”

“With his people — where he belongs.”

Sif looked to Thor, and, at his nod, stabbed the jötunn in the shoulder. The thing roared and buckled, but Sif held on grimly. “Tell us!”

“Thor.” Hogun was looking at the rocks once more.

Thor whirled around, expecting to find a half-dozen jötunns charging them, but he saw only three beasts. They were strange, lithe looking creatures with thick white manes. They also had powerful legs equipped with clawed feet that looked good for grabbing. Upon their backs were leather saddles. They were tethered by their tusks to a stone post.

Thor trudged over to Hogun and hissed, “Yes?”

“These beasts will return to their homes if we set them loose,” Hogun muttered, “and that will lead us to civilisation. Perhaps, if we are lucky, they are from the same place where the Bifröst site is; where Laufey, and therefore Loki, are.”

Thor nodded, sounding the logic out. “And if not? If we set them free and they roam?”

“We find more jötunns to ask,” Volstagg said simply. “This one will bleed out before he tells us anything. Let us be done with him and try Hogun’s plan.”

Thor said back to Sif, “Kill him.”

Sif didn’t hesitate. She whipped her sword back, slashing the jötunn’s throat, and the monster died without so much as a whisper.

Fandral walked over, grinning broadly. “Well, what a wonderful start,” he said, cleaning the bright blue blood from his sword with a handful of snow and a cheery smile. “My wound feels better already.”

“I thought it had already healed,” Sif said as she walked over to the group, eyebrow raised in scepticism.

“It would have sounded strange if I had said ‘my scar feels better already’, wouldn’t of it?”

“Be quiet,” Thor ordered. “We don’t know if more jötunns are around.”

“I think those were the only three; if there were more, there would be more mounts,” Hogun reasoned. “There weren’t any tracks either, so no one’s run off.”

-Thor’s shoulders were still tensed as he broke away from the group. He went over to their fallen packs, looking around all the while in case one of the monsters were to jump at him from the rocks. He opened his bag, pulling out a thick woollen cloak lined with wolf fur that he threw around his shoulders. He hooked the clasps into place with steadily numbing fingers. He had left his mantle in Asgard, as detection by the jötunns was the last thing the group needed. He exchanged his heavy boots for ones lined with rabbit fur and coated with linseed oil for waterproofing. His hair he left loose, willing to trade its offered warmth to his ears and the back of his neck for brushing it from his mouth and eyes.

The others joined him. Sif rammed her sword into the snow and took out her cloak, pulling the hood up to shade her eyes and keep her head warm. She too exchanged her boots for thicker ones, the treads of which were slightly spiked to offer better grip on the ice.

Thor finished dressing as he wrapped a scarf around his neck, and lastly pulled out a snow visor, something that had been hardly used, and tied it around his head. Instantly, the light was easier on his eyes.

He looked to the beasts. They were snuffling and snarling at the scent of spilt jötunn blood and the Æsir, growling wildly as Thor and Volstagg crossed to them. Thor lifted Mjölnir, and she shone with a subtle electrical charge. The animals bore their teeth, but backed away as he advanced. Hogun approached the beasts slowly, and they snapped at him.

Thor raised Mjölnir, and the creatures turned their attentions back to him, eyeing him and the hammer flatly.

“Loose them.”

Hogun cut the lines, and Thor swung at the beasts in warning. All three of them jumped at him. Mjölnir cracked into the side of one’s head, and it let out a high screech of pain, falling on the snow and titching erratically. The other two drew back hesitantly, the tips of their tails flicking back and forth.

“Go!” Thor roared at them. “Get out of here!”

One bolted east, and the other followed after a few seconds hesitation.

“East it is, then,” Volstagg said.

“So it seems,” Thor agreed. He advanced upon the wounded one, and brought Mjölnir down on its head. It stopped twitching and whining. Thor straightened up. “Let’s first eat, and then we’ll head off.”

They dined on cold meats and spiced mead, eating little to preserve their supply. When they were done, they hoisted their packs, strapped on their snowshoes, and trudged off in the opposite direction to the dim sun — Thor was glad it was at their backs. Mjölnir never left his hand as they walked, even as the group became more relaxed as the hours began to stretch by without so much as a bird in sight.

“It’s just wrong,” Sif muttered to Thor who had sped up to walk with him at the front of the group. “We have seen _nothing_.”

Thor cursed as one of the snowshoe’s straps slipped and loosened. He ducked down and tied it again, replying at the same moment, “Be grateful we have seen nothing yet; fighting causes a ruckus and it delays. Besides, if things go wrong, there will be plenty of time to fight then.” He straightened up, readjusted his pack, and swept loose strands of hair from his face. “Loki is more important to me than a petty scrap between us and monsters. You all are.” He looked back to his companions.

Despite the thickness of their furs and cloaks, all of which were stitched and woven through with _Kaun_ runes for warmth, the cold was sapping at their bones. To Thor, the development wasn’t surprising; they had been walking for hours, and the sun was once again descending.

“We should stop for tonight,” Thor declared. “I’ve no want of building shelter in the dark. Are we in agreeance?”

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Volstagg said, dropping his pack from his shoulder and stretching his back and arms. “If we hurry, then we can get the job done quickly. If the realm is this cold during the day, I can only shudder to think at what temperatures it would drop to without the sun.”

“Yes,” Sif said. Once more driving her sword into the snow point first, she walked a few paces away, looking at the surrounding area to assess any irregularities within the flat plain before tracing a wide circle with her foot. Then they all began to help build the snow cave for the night.

Firstly, they piled up a mound of snow which came up to Thor’s waist, a job that took close to an hour but was lightened by jokes and stories as well as plans about what they would do once they had Loki back within their folds.

“Niðavellir is all good,” Fandral was saying, pushing snow onto the pile and wiping his hands, “but that would take two days at the most to inspect the dwarf forges. Perhaps we should start with something that boils the blood a bit more. Perhaps we should do battle with Jörmungandr upon our return to Midgardr; we won’t have lied, then. We would have told a half-truth.”

Thor grinned as he smoothed the top of the mound, packing down the snow before stepping back and observing his work. Now that the mound was sufficiently big enough, they would have to wait for the snow to harden before they could dare try to dig underneath in order to minimise the chance of collapse. The sun was just kissing the horizon when they began to dig out the snow. They dug down, adding the excess snow they hauled out to the roof of the mound. After another hour of work, they had a space that stretched three metres back, plenty enough room for all five of them and their six packs. Some of the snow they made into low benches on the sides of the cave to sleep on, and worked on smoothing the underside of the roof to minimise the risk of drips. Smoothing the floor, they laid furs down as Sif cut a ventilation hole into the roof.

“Cozy!” Volstagg pronounced as they crawled in. “Dinner, lady and gentlemen?”

Their meal was not glamorous — merely a lump of salt, a couple of handfuls of diced beef along with some crushed herbs, and stock cooked over blue witchfire. They ate from the pot, passing it and the spoon around along with a skin of wine. Fandral was telling the group of a ludicrous situation he had once found himself in much to the amusement of Sif in particular, but Thor wasn’t listening. He laughed at the right cues, but it was an act. Loki’s absence was a dark hole within their company, and Thor was determined to once again fill it.

* * *

#

* * *

“I haven’t seen you laugh as you have tonight for a long time,” Sif said.

Thor rolled over to look at her. The others were all fast asleep, their light snores the only sounds breaking the silence. Thor hadn’t been asleep — he couldn’t sleep. “Such is the effect of having merry company,” he said quietly.

“I think it is something more than that.”

Thor sat up, and gestured for Sif to come over. She transversed the tiny area quickly, and sat next to Thor, who threw his furs around her shoulders.

“Your hands are cold,” Thor noted, taking them up between his own.

Sif smiled slightly. “Yours are, too.”

“It is a shame we bought just one witchfire stone with us,” Thor mused. The witchfire was burning low in the centre of the snow cave, bathing them with kingfisher light.

“Mmm.” Sif pulled closer to Thor, and he put an arm around her, rubbing her upper arm fiercely in an attempt to warm her. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Everything I can do to help,” Thor said. “It is, after all, my fau—”

“No,” Sif said sharply. “Thor, if I hear you say that one more time, then so help me I will give you a black eye that will be upon you until Ragnarók. It is _all_ our faults; none of us tried to stop you from coming to Jötunheimr in the first place, and look at where our bullheadedness has led us.”

“Sif—”

“Enough.” Thor wished to argue further, but Sif continued, “You told me you were grateful for my companionship over these past two months, and it would be a poor thing to say to me when I see you spiralling into this hole of misery, would it not?”

“… I suppose.”

Sif snorted. “‘Suppose’ … suppose my foot.”

“Be careful with your words, Lady Sif,” Thor warned, but there was a lightness to his voice that disbanded the threat of his words. “I am grateful, but always the question of ‘what if’ tortures my mind every second of everyday: what if Laufey had not seen Loki’s change? What if he hadn’t been grabbed? What if I’d just _listened_ to him?” Thor brought his hand up to the back of Sif’s neck, a gesture he recently had only ever shared with Loki, and so it was with some sort of dim surprise he found himself doing the same thing here and now. The unbidden thought of Sif’s face during Loki’s funeral flashed through his mind, and the thought of her beauty that had accompanied it.

Sif had gone very still at his touch, and her eyes were fixed on his.

“Thank you,” Thor said quietly.

Sif covered his hand with hers, and fit herself into his side. She was very warm. “Sleep, Thor. Exhaustion will not help us now.”

* * *

#

* * *

They moved on when morning came. They packed their things up quickly and collapsed the cave. After eating each a handful of smoked meat and roasted roots, they started east once more. They walked silently that day, each of them looking for any other dangers that might present themselves.

The open plains slowly turned to more rocky areas as they progressed, and the snows gave way to icy flats. The landscape was incredible; huge twists of ice looping and snaking their ways over the snow, and Jötunheimr’s distinctive hexagonal columns were another feature. The ravines and pitfalls of the area were difficult to transverse and, after failing to find their way around many chasms, had to carefully cross them. As such, they didn’t make much progress that day, and camped for the night under a huge arch of ice. They didn’t risk the fire, and instead huddled together under the many thick furs they had brought. Anything mortal would have quickly died in the climate.

Thor kept watch for half the night; during his watch, he heard creatures moving amongst the rocks and ice. All the while, he kept a tight grip on Mjölnir. Jötunheimr at night was dangerous, and, he had to silently admit to himself as he burrowed into the furs, unsettled him greatly; the night was alive with the realm’s wildlife. And so it was with a sliver of relief he woke Volstagg for his watch.

He was chilled to the bone when he woke the next morning, his joints cracking and protesting as he stretched and shook himself to continue the hike. Jötunheimr had, once more, blissfully fallen quiet during the day.

That day of travel was livelier than the one before, Fandral’s stories and jokes lightening the mood greatly, but each of the company was reserved greatly, each painfully aware of their surroundings, each expecting to be jumped upon by fifty jötunns around the next bend.

But no matter what Fandral did to make the others laugh, Thor remained silent. He could almost _taste_ his victory in the air, as if some inner sense was telling him he was so close to finding his younger brother. Thor swore to himself that when he did find him, he would make it up to him in every way he could possibly imagine — Loki of all people deserved it.

“Oh, how much further?” Fandral groaned as they walked up an incline. The sun was setting once again, and everyone was looking forward to stopping for the night after a challenging day of hiking.

Volstagg said, “I would tell you if the bloody maps were up to date, which they aren’t.”

“It can’t be that much further though,” Fandral moaned. “We _can’t_ be that much further away.”

“Or I was wrong, and we have been going in the wrong direction,” Hogun put in darkly.

“Stop being such a thundercloud,” Fandral said, eyeing the man. “Right bucket of sunshine, aren’t you?”

Thor had trudged away from his friends, ignoring their bickering. There was a rise just in front of him and he started to climb it, eager to get to the top to see where they were. It was difficult work, the ice making his progress slow as his boots slipped on the frictionless surface, despite their spiked treads. His hands were numb even through the thick gloves, and groping for rock handholds was a hard going job, especially when they loosened from their places to roll back down the slope. It was with ill grace he topped the rise.

The setting sun blinded him, and he threw up an arm to shield his eyes. Squinting, he could make out a gorge that split the ice in front of him — had he taken just a few more steps forward, he would have fallen into it. However, it wasn’t what caught his attention.

Thor ducked down, crouching low, and staring intently at the city that had risen suddenly. It was dark and foreboding, even in the fading daylight. The ancient walls were a crumbling mess, and what would have once been incredible workings of architecture were now smashed ruins. Low buildings were overshadowed by an immense tower — was a dark wound against the sky.

His hand flew to Mjölnir, and he watched intently for any sign of movement within the place. After a few minutes of nothing, he shifted back uneasily.

“Thor?” Volstagg called.

“Quiet,” Thor hissed back.

“Jötunns?” Fandral whispered.

Thor shook his head. “Settlement. Big one at that.”

Volstagg swore under his breath, and the four of them climbed the ledge to meet Thor. All of them had weapons at the ready, but after a little, Thor could tell something wasn’t right. The buildings were too quiet, too still. Even the noise of livestock was absent.

It was Hogun who voiced his thoughts a few seconds later. “It is abandoned.”

“How can you tell?” Fandral asked.

“It was a part of the Allfather’s strategy for taking Útgarðar,” Sif said suddenly. “He ordered the destruction of the outer cities that provided a land buffer to Laufey’s abode. This must be one of them. Just look at the buildings; not even Útgarðar was this wrecked. The walls have been blown in in half of these buildings, and if you look on the ground, there’s no evidence of any tracks of any kind.”

Now Thor looked more closely, he could see that they were right. No one in their right minds would live in a place like this. It made Útgarðar seem well built and recovered.

“Well come on then,” Thor grunted, straightening up and hoisting his pack over his shoulder. “Let’s take a closer look, and if we’re correct, then it’ll be the perfect place for us to camp.”

Fandral sighed and stood up, grumbling audibly as he shook himself.

They retreated down the slope, and began to pick their way towards the buildings. It was still another two hours of difficult hiking to reach the outskirts of the city. The five of them paused just outside the furthest house. Nothing yet had happened: no sound of alarm from a watch, no braying from livestock, no noise at all. Thor motioned for them to go forward.

They crept into the buildings, their weapons at the ready.

A crunch from under Thor’s foot got his attention. He looked down, then swallowed thickly as he took his foot out of the snow. It had hidden the crumbling ribcage of a fallen frost giant. “Well, that settles it,” Thor said simply. “Abandoned.”

They lowered their weapons a little.

“We should still check the place; it could be a refuge.” Sif went to one of the buildings, and, steeling herself, broke down the door. Volstagg was behind her as the two leapt inside, sword and axe at the ready, but they quickly relaxed.

“Nothing,” Sif called out to them. “It’s thick with frost. No one’s even been here for centuries, I think.”

They also checked other buildings for life, and all yielded the same result: nothing. They found more skeletons as well, and it was only after finding a dozen of each that they were convinced the place really was deserted.

“This is as good a place as any to camp,” Volstagg said as he exited the tower’s lowest floor. “Stone walls, a maze to transverse, and plenty of shelter for any potential attacks.”

“And we’ll be able to light the fire,” Fandral said, cheery.

“I guess we’re all in favour of staying?” Sif asked.

There were murmurs of agreement from all around.

“Come on, then,” said Fandral, striding past Volstagg into the tower. “I’m cold, stiff, and hungry.”

* * *

#

* * *

The night was undoubtedly the warmest they had spent in the realm. The stone walls insulated them well, and, ignoring the musty smell of the place, was perfect for their encampment. It was midnight at least, Thor thought, but he wasn’t asleep. He balanced Mjölnir on his knees, her deep innate magic a comforting hum resonating in his heart.

He flicked his eyes to his companions. All of them were fast asleep, fingers curled around the hilts of their weapons. Thor stood up, putting the note he had scribbled a few minutes before on his pack. He went to the stone door, opening it as quietly as he could and shutting it behind him.

The air was still outside and he breathed it in, the cold sharp in his lungs. Norns, how he hated the snow.

He began to swing Mjölnir in his grip, readying to take flight, when Sif said, “What are you doing?”

Thor turned around. She either hadn’t been asleep or had woken up at his departure. He sighed, readjusted his cloak, and said, “I’m going to look for Laufey’s abode. If we are to meet with my brother, I want it to be in the safest place possible.”

Sif’s hand landed on his arm and she said angrily, “What about us? You can’t go by yourself!”

“Five of us are easier to spot than one. I’ll be back before sundown,” Thor promised. He took her head in his hands and pushed his lips to hers. It was a quick, forceful kiss; one Thor would have liked to have gone on for longer and to have been more sensual, but now was not the time. “I promise, Sif.”

He stepped away, swinging Mjölnir in his fist again. As he lifted from the ground, he swore he heard Sif say, “I am going to kick — your — _arse_ , Thor Odinson.”

Thor wondered stupidly if she was talking about him leaving or the fact he’d kissed her.

* * *

#

* * *

The night air was freezing on his face, and he soon couldn’t feel the tips of his ears. The wind howled in his ears and whipped through his hair, but Thor ignored it, urging Mjölnir to keep going. She hummed in his hand as she pulled him east. The landscape flew beneath him at speeds he had long since gotten used to. The landscape had started to smooth beneath him, once again giving way to somewhat icy flats. Outcroppings of rock dotted the land here and there; some of them big enough to be classified as small mountains like the one Útgarðar was shadowed under.

Just as dawn broke the horizon, Thor spotted what could have only been Útgarðar. The castle was visible even at a distance: a great spire of rock huge and dark against the dying night sky and silver ice. He was still wary of being caught, and so he landed lightly, crouching low and shuffling forward to get a better view of the place.

_Loki’s there._

Thor swallowed, did a quick once-over of the surrounding area, then stood up. He set his feet apart and loosened Mjölnir in his grip. Clouds began to boil in the skies and lightning crackled in the air as Thor held Mjölnir high. His hair was charged with static and he pulled the lightning down. It slammed into Mjölnir, sparking against the uru and leaving a buzzing in his arm. It struck quickly, dissipating before Thor drew down the lightning again for another fast strike. The third he held for a second before dismissing that, too. It was a signalling method Loki was sure to recognise. That was, if he’d seen it.

Thor hoped to high Hel he had, for all he could do now was sit back and wait for Loki’s reply.


	12. Chapter Ten - Brother Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 29-11-2015**

_Thor. What is_ Thor _doing_ here _?_

Loki’s mind was a whirlwind as he paced heatedly in front of the window in his chambers, glancing every now and again in the direction the lightning strikes had come from. Thor was _here_ , here is this frozen, Norns-be-damned realm for either rescue or revenge, Loki could only guess. But instead of the purely wild joy he thought he would have experienced at this turn of events, Loki felt a deep and burning anger. Thor, who had always been there, had failed him when it was most important, when he _wanted him to help_. Loki was bound to the realm. Either Thor was a fool to come if he hoped to take Loki away, or he had come to kill the lie that was his brother before he could become yet another danger to Yggdrasil.

But he ached for his older brother.

 _No_ , he reminded himself savagely. _Not my brother._

He yearned to go to him, but another part of him didn’t, to ignore the lightning and abandon Thor as Thor had abandoned him. Let him be caught by the jötnar along with the Warriors Three and Sif who had no doubt come as well; why should he care? Thor, and Asgard, were now his enemies by default.

“Prince?” Loki blinked as he straightened up. Bryja, who had just brought him the dawn meal, was standing behind him, a worried look in her eye. “Your arm—”

Loki’s eyes fell to his arm. His claws had broken the skin he had been gripping it so tightly. He hadn’t registered the pain. “I know,” he said dismissively. “Leave me.” He pulled the bands from his horns and threw them carelessly to the bed; Bryja scooped them up quickly and returned them to their box in the antechamber.

“May I ask what troubles you, Your Highness?”

“You may not,” Loki snapped viciously. “Go. _Now_.” His shoulders tensed.

Bryja gave a bow and left, but Loki didn’t miss the heavy sigh she let out just before the door closed. He had half the mind to call her back and chastise her on her disrespect; he was so _furious_. He also had half the mind to fly into another fit of destructive rage, but he reined his violent emotions in; he didn’t need to be summoned by Laufey. He shifted for something to do, pulling the furs from the bed as gooseflesh prickled his arms and chest.

“You bastard, Thor,” he muttered, pinching the skin between his eyes. He was just too torn up inside to be focused on Thor now. He _needed_ to heal himself, and Thor was just holding the wounds open.

And some part of him wanted to hurt.

Loki bit the inside of his cheek, then flicked his fingers. A green spark danced along his finger before it vanished with the smallest of _snaps_.

He had made his decision; for good or for ill, it was yet to be seen. Thor was waiting.

* * *

#

* * *

The káshta flew across the ice: a beast to rival the speed of even one of the many air-skips of Asgard. Loki was hunched low over its back, hair whipping behind him, and the wind screaming in his ears. Nearly six hours of hard riding had brought Loki kilometres out of Útgarðar, and he drank the freedom in greedily; no jötnar to hound him, no false exteriors, and no fighting against his inner-most desires to run from the place. That he had done, and he was running to the enemy.

After he had run to the west in the direction of the lightning, he had activated a tracking spell he had placed on Mjölnir centuries before. It led him towards the Skógarmaðrfit, a huge area that ran up the west side of the continent and acted as a barrier between Útgarðar and Þrymheimr. It was full of dangerous pitfalls, gorges, snaking glaciers, epic cliff drops, rock fall sites, dagger-like icicles, sparkling ice structures, and treacherous expanses of open ground. Twisting waves of ice reached up to the skies and curved back on themselves to form arches that sometimes stretched for over three hundred metres into the air. Pillars of rock coated in ice towered overhead, their natural hexagonal shapes ranging from no more than a hand-width to several paces wide.

For the káshta, however, it was an easy navigation. The clawed feet pounded the ice and snow, finding strong purchase on the uneven surface whilst always keeping Loki level. It leapt across cracks and gorges, gripping onto the rock and ice with its well-adapted feet so well it ran up steep cliff faces with ease. Once it reached the top of one of these many climbs, Loki pulled on the reins to bring it to a halt. The beast was panting lightly as Loki fixed his eyes on the ruins of the city that had risen suddenly. It was still perhaps two or so kilometres away, and the spell was pulling him towards it. His excitement and his dread surmounted equally.

Thor was close.

He urged the káshta forward with a sharp, rather harder than necessary, kick to the sides. The beast gave a small snort of complaint before tearing off again, long strides carrying them at great speed towards the city. It was less than two minutes before they were outside the furthest house.

Loki pulled the káshta up. He took his pack from the saddle and slid off, padding cautiously through the snow. “Dveljask,” he commanded, holding up a hand. _Stay._ The beast sat on its haunches before curling into a tight ball, looking at him through slitted eyes.

Loki reshouldered his pack and walked through the houses, following the spell. He stuck to the shadows, tense and expecting something to strike at him. He didn’t dare shift his skin yet, just in case it had been a trick, a trap to lure him into some political mess. Fárbauti’s words were still fresh in his mind.

Loki followed the spell nevertheless, and he froze when he saw Volstagg standing watch outside the ruin’s centre tower. Volstagg too stood ridged as he caught sight of Loki, who had shrunk back into shadow at once so to hide his shape.

“Take one more step, jötunn,” Volstagg said in the Allspeak, “and you will die where you stand.”

“It that anyway to talk to me?” Loki snapped back in the Æsir tongue. “Still as battle eager as the rest of your idiot band?”

“Loki?” Volstagg asked, his axe dropping a few centimetres, but still refusing to put it away.

Loki’s eyes were still fixed upon it. He was wondering again why they were here — to claim or kill?

“Brother?!”

Loki’s stomach dropped. He peered from the shadows as Thor burst from the tower door, eyes scanning the vicinity before they locked onto Loki. He tried to make himself as small as he could, to hide his body. His own greeting of “Brother” wedged itself in his throat, and he swallowed tightly before nodding once. He dropped his pack and pulled out a thick cloak as Thor ran to him. He flung it around his shoulders, shifting the moment he adjusted it. He’d barely straightened up before Thor crushed him into a hug.

“Loki … Norns….”

“Thor,” Loki finally said. And that was all he said; he couldn’t get anything else around the lump of raw emotion. He hugged Thor back, holding to him as tight as he could, ignoring when the muscles began to cramp. The smell of him filled Loki’s nose — the ozone and polish and leather and sweat.

But part of him still wondered why Thor hadn’t made an attempt to kill him.

Thor loosened his grip slightly when Loki’s ribs began to ache, and pulled away to better look at him. Thor put one of his hands on the back of Loki’s neck, and he felt himself relax; it spoke of a time when everything had been all right. He leant into it, silently grateful for the gesture. His heart was pounding so hard and fast he thought it would surely break through his chest.

_Why haven’t you struck me down?_

“It’s good to see you, Brother,” Thor said finally.

“It’s only been two months,” Loki said as casually as he could. He wanted to say a thousand more things, to hold Thor in another embrace forever. To weep in giddy relief at being reunited. To demand from him why he hadn’t come sooner — hadn’t come in time to retrieve him before the swearing of his oaths to Laufey.

“It has seemed like forever.”

Loki didn’t smile.

Seeming to notice Loki’s state of underdress for the first time — _how typical of him_ — Thor said, “You must be freezing.”

Loki blinked. He hadn’t noticed. Or he’d been too relieved to be able to feel the cold again his subconsciousness had no desire to depart. But even so, Thor moved aside so Loki could trudge to the tower. Fandral, Sif, and Hogun were inside, and they stood up at once when Loki entered.

“Loki!” Fandral called, delighted.

Loki would’ve stayed by the edge of the room if Thor hadn’t steered him towards the witchfire; his teeth were chattering violently. Loki sat, and Thor next to him. He was very aware of how close Thor was to him, how he was almost pressed against him.

“How’ve you been?” Volstagg asked, clapping Loki on the shoulder. Loki pulled the fur closer so to hide the new scars from the _hólmganga_. He didn’t answer Volstagg’s question, nor any of the others:

“You been holding up alright?”

“What have the jötunns wanted with you?”

“Haven’t turned into a savage, have you?”

“How did you get here?” Loki asked quietly, overriding their questions.

“We went to Midgardr,” Thor answered, shifting close enough that they were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. “Remember the Ævaleysa Father sealed at Uppsala? We opened it again.”

Loki frowned. “How?”

“Amora.”

“ _What_ ,” Loki said sharply, face ashen. “She knows—?”

“She already knew,” Fandral said. “Besides, we had very little choice in the matter”

Loki groaned.

Never one for beating about the bush, Thor said, “Regardless of whose help we used to get here, we’ve come to take you home, Loki.”

“Home?” He felt numb at the word, utterly detached from it. Dazed and curiously empty.

“We’ve brought your things,” Thor continued, oblivious to Loki and gesturing towards one of the packs. “Furs, wool cloaks, winter things, your leathers and your armour. We’ll have to travel for four or five days back to the Ævaleysa.”

“You packed my seven-league boots as well?” Loki asked hollowly as Thor pulled one out to show him. But then he shook his head minutely. “What was the point? They’re not going to fit me anymore, not when I’m ten foot tall.”

Thor paused. “What do you mean?”

“You want to … to take me _home_.” Loki stood and turned his back on Thor, mind suddenly sure of what he wanted. “What home? For Asgard isn’t it.”

Thor looked stunned. “You’re accepting this ice rock as your home?”

“This will _never_ be my home,” Loki said, offended at the very notion. “I don’t have it anymore.”

“Then leave, Loki, for these jötunns—”

“‘Jötunns’?” Loki asked dangerously. His anger had folded down into the quiet calm before a storm after the _hólmganga_ , but now it was returning with a destructive force. “The plural is jötnar, you imbecile, much as _Æsir_ is the plural of ás and ásynja.”

Thor took a breath before continuing, “These _jötnar_ are not your family, Loki. We’re your family — in Asgard.”

“You think this is about my want for my blood kin?” he asked, and he could feel the anger building, bleeding from his skin. “For my older brother who despises me? For my younger who can think of nothing better to do than jabber at me? For my mother who plays at tenderness? Or we you talking about my monstrous father who ripped out the eye of yours?”

“I am your brother; your mother is my mother, as is your father—”

“Oh! So you were talking of the family that so readily threw me away,” Loki spat, working himself up into an even greater rage. “Oh yes, because I am sure true family would never do something like that, politics be damned! After all, that’s all Odin took me for — a political reason which he had every plan to still use until Laufey found out the truth too soon for his liking.”

“Is it not obvious to you that he loves you? You’re his son.”

Loki’s mouth stretched into a wild, maniacal grin. “Some love that is…. He _left me here_. I _begged_ him to come back, even to just tell me why he did what he did, but there was nothing — not even a hint. Has he enjoyed watching my suffering from Hlidskjalf?”

“We cannot know of his suffering. But I am asking you as your _brother_ and your brother alone to come back with us — to come back home. For your _happiness_.”

Loki laughed almost madly. “Don’t you _understand_?” he exclaimed. “I can’t. The Allfather released me from every oath I had sworn to him when he left me here. I was forced to swear an oath of loyalty to Laufey in front of _one hundred thousand jötnar_. To go back to Asgard would be to commit treason, and I don’t want to risk the punishment of treason that these monsters would inflict upon me. Laufey starved me for a near month because I refused to bow before him, so what do you think would happen if I were to run with you? If I were to go back to Asgard, Odin would only send me back for fear of breaking of his peace, my happiness be _fucked_. You’ve come here on a fool’s errand.”

Thor grit his teeth, and Loki could see he was struggling to not reach out for him. _Lay a finger on me, Asgardian, and you will regret it._

“Once you’re back home, we can sort this out,” Thor said. “Have Father reconsider his actions, fix everything from there.”

But Loki didn’t want Thor’s charity. Nor Odin’s. He didn’t want anything to do with Asgard. “Would you wish to kill me from your cruelness?” Loki asked heatedly. “To have me look upon Asgard, taste its air again, only to be hurled back through Bifröst to this barren rock?” His magic was sparking between his fingers. He paced back and forth, oblivious to the horror on the others’ faces.

Thor looked aghast. “Brother—”

“ _I am not your brother!_ ” Loki screamed. And the words were out, those terrible words he’d become so familiar with it tore something in his chest to voice them. He imagined the ice crawled at his feet. “How could you think I’d want to go back to Asgard after learning _everything_ there was a lie?” He turned his furious gaze on the Warriors Three and Sif. “I am a frost giant, Thor. If not even your _friends_ can swallow the truth, if they cannot help but flinch away from me, then what makes you think I’ll be welcome back in Asgard? No doubt every last maker of novelty spoons knows what I am. Now they can finally pin their hatred for me onto something substantial, can now openly curse and spit at me instead of whispering behind backs about my magic and _seiðr_ and night activities. To Asgard, all I was was the disgraceful, unworthy second prince — the spare who was a stain on the Allfather’s name. No doubt the streets already are full of the jeers of the people, how they curse me because I’m _this_!”

“Is that what you really think?”

“Unless there has been a sudden change of heart within the Æsir, then what else would they think?”

“Asgard mourns for you! We have told them nothing of your blood — they all think you are dead.”

Loki had difficultly choking back a sob. “Did dear Father wish to respect my greatest secret?” he sneered to hide it. “To make me a hero to the end that died on the cold wastes of Jötunheimr, defending his family and his home? Did he wish to hide his _shame_ by killing me? Asgard may have mourned, but they mourned for their prince, _not_ for me.”

Thor’s patience finally broke. “I am going to bring you home, Loki,” he said forcefully. “And so help me I will knock you unconscious if I must.”

“Asgard is not my home!” His stance contradicted every wish he’d had since he’d been trapped here, but, when faced with the choice to go back, Loki found he didn’t want to go back to Asgard — the realm that had lied to him, that had hated him, that had killed and buried him to hide their gravest mistake. He wanted nothing to do with Asgard, wanted nothing to do with Jötunheimr.

_I am myself._

With that, he shifted. He stood tall, towering over the Æsir, and he snarled viciously. “Asgard is not my home,” he repeated. “How can it when all of you swore to hunt down Yggdrasil’s monsters? Look at me, am I not one of them now?” He spread his arms, exposing his chest and baring his throat. “Are you not going to slay me, crush me with Mjölnir?”

Some part of him bitterly hoped Thor would swing Mjölnir and end him.

“How could you say that?” Thor asked, horrified. “You’re my _brother_.”

Mercy he was evidently not going to be easily given. “I am jötunn,” Loki hissed quietly. “I’m not your brother — I never was.”

“You’re coming home with us, Brother.”

And there is was again, that disregard for his own thoughts and feelings, being used by Thor to give him what _he_ wanted. Loki’s anger broke its boundaries. Ice formed in the air, and he shot the shards forward with flick of his fingers. Thor summoned Mjölnir to his hand and held her before him, shielding his face. Ice ripped at his leathers, punching them with holes and skittering off his armour with scrapes and clinks.

Whilst Thor was distracted, Loki pounced. He crashed into him, clawing at him with no regard to any sort of combatant style. Red clouded his vision, and pure, unbridled wrath thundered through his veins. He snarled as Thor shoved him off and rolled to his feet, circling slowly. Thor’s face and neck were bloody where Loki had managed to get at him, and he dabbed at it, looking at the blood in shock. Loki had the urge to flinch, but he found himself biting out another manic breath of laughter instead.

“Is it not obvious now?” he asked, heart fluttering in his chest. “I’m not your brother.”

Sif drew her weapon. Loki’s giddiness vanished, and he rounded on her, snarling like a wounded beast.

“Sif, stay back!” Thor commanded.

“Th—”

“You have my orders, and they are to stay back.”

“Want to have the pleasure of defeating me yourself?” Loki demanded. “You’re as selfish as ever.”

“I’m trying to _help_ you!” Thor said impatiently. “Why can’t you see that? The more people in the fight and the more chance you’ll be hurt. Once we’re gone from here you’ll have time to think, and we’ll go back home.”

“I’m not coming with you … I never want to see you again.” It hurt, but it was a necessary lie. And he tried to lie to himself as well, to ease his pounding heart. “I _hate_ you.” And then, to goad Thor all the more: “I let the frost giants into the Weapons Vault. I spoiled your coronation. Me.”

There it finally was — that spark of murderous rage in Thor’s eyes.

 _Now strike me down_ , Loki thought.

But Thor, the fool, asked, “Why?”

“Because I’ve never loved you,” Loki whispered through the pain of his heart. “Because I am a biological creature of malice and hate. I want everything you have to fall to ruin, including the brotherhood you think we share. It means _nothing_ to me.”

“Loki, why do you say this? Why do you lie? Do you want to fight?”

“Fighting has been my world for the past two months.” Loki’s voice was edging now on hysteria. “I have been fighting every night for my life so I am not perceived as weak. I have been fighting to keep my sanity in this world because every night I feel like I am drowning. And I will fight to not go back to Asgard.”

“We can fix this, Loki.”

“We can’t fucking fixing this!”

But before he could swing at Thor again, Sif stepped in between them, her sword pointed towards the ground, and a steely look in her eye. “Loki, stop this.”

“Move,” Loki hissed. He clenched his fist.

“Loki, you’re being unreasonable.”

“ _I’m_ being unreasonable?” Loki laughed. Looking to Thor, he growled low in his throat. “You’re being unreasonably thick.”

Sif threw her sword to the ground. “Loki, please. Calm down, we can talk. No weapons, no fighting, only talking.”

“Are you trying to patronise me?” Loki asked, furious.

“No,” Sif said. She knelt, hands at shoulder height. Curiosity stayed Loki’s hand, and he tilted his head to the side, keeping half an eye on Thor and half an eye on her. “Loki, we want to help.”

“Then leave.”

He was done with them. He couldn’t stay any longer lest his resolve weaken. He stormed past the five of them, wrenching the door open easily and stepping outside. But he was thrown to the ground as Thor lunged at him from behind. He twisted around, snarling at the Thunderer, trying to kick him away.

“Loki, enough!”

“Get off!”

“If it was indeed you who let the giants into the Vault, Loki, I forgive you. I will not let that drive a wedge between us,” Thor said forcibly. “I will not leave you here in their hands.”

“And why not?” Loki screamed back at him. “You would kept all the monsters in a pen, then. It would be convenient, would it not?” He swung at his face, but Thor caught his wrist, quickly turning red in the effort to hold Loki’s new strength back. “Why do you _insist_ on this? Keeping close your hideous monster of a brother?” Fire lit in his hand, and Thor grimaced at the heat.

“I’m not leaving you again. I never will.”

And then Thor clamped something around his wrist. Loki stuttered in shock as the fire died, restrained by a magic dampener. It was deceptively simple in design; nothing more than a thin silver band scored with runes. Loki snarled, keeping his free hand out of reach as he kicked Thor off and backed away. Like this, his magic was weakened, but it was a huge effort to call up anything more.

“What are you doing, you idiot?” Loki tried to get his claws under it, tried to scratch out the runes keeping him prisoner, but it was useless. “Stop this. Just _stop this_.” Even now, he could feel its effects creeping through his blood, stealing more and more of his magic every second as it struggled to supress it without the matching band. It wouldn’t matter soon that he had one on; it would be enough. He felt sluggish, weakened.

“I won’t let you go again,” Thor said flatly. “Like this, you won’t hurt yourself, nor will you be able to go. It may seem unfair—”

“ _Unfair?_ ”

“—but this is for your own good. Loki, Jötunheimr will send you mad; I know you too well, love you too much. Just let me save you, please.”

“Norns, I _hate_ you.” Loki tried to shift, but nothing happened. He tried again, willing himself with everything he had to change, huffing with the effort. And then, after nothing, panic caught at him.

“Thor,” he said, his voice small and catching in his throat, “please, take it off. I can’t …”

“Loki?”

“I can’t shift. Brother, I can’t—” His breaths were coming quickly now, and Thor had to pull him to his feet. Panic was catching at him, and his throat felt like it was closing, his vision narrowing to twisted, clawed, blue hands. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t, his voice wasn’t working.

“Loki, calm down—”

Loki shot up. He slammed Thor into a nearby wall, lifting him high enough that his toes hung feet above the ground. He bore his teeth, ignoring the shouts of the Æsir behind him. “Take — it — _off_ ,” he growled through his teeth.

“Loki, put me down,” Thor said, gripping his wrist.

“Take the dampener off,” Loki said, giving Thor a sight shake. “If you love me, then you will take it off.”

“I can’t,” Thor said softly. “Don’t you see? If I take it off, then you’ll run.”

Loki pushed him further up the wall, digging his claws into Thor’s arms. “Do you seek to ruin me?” he asked savagely. “Take from me the only _sliver_ of freedom I had left?”

“Your body does not change who you are,” Thor insisted.

“It’s so bloody easy for you to say that when you’re not _this_ ,” Loki spat. The wind bit into the tear tracks on his cheeks; he hadn’t noticed the tears fall. “Do you know what it’s like? To loathe yourself? To want to destroy everything you’ve ever known just to calm your mind? Living with it? Do you know how many times I have thought about killing myself?”

Thor grew quiet. “Please Brother, forgive me. If that is how you truly feel, then know that I will help you in every way that I can.”

Loki shook his wrist in Thor’s face. “Then remove it”

“Not here. I swear I’ll take the dampener from you when we arrive on Midgardr. I swear it.”

Loki’s eyes widened in incredulity. “You … you _fucking_ … fucking _hypocrite_.”

“We’ll leave in the morning,” Thor said. He cast Loki such a sympathetic look he wished he could claw off his face.

A muscle in Loki’s neck twitched, and then he dropped Thor. Thor landed heavily, but neither of them moved. Without Thor’s help, the dampener wouldn’t be easy to take off. There wasn’t a physical key to the mechanism — it was, in itself, magic. Thor had to _want_ to remove the dampener if it were to come off without several tonnes of physical force — and a broken wrist — or outside magical influence to aid it. Loki was trapped, well and proper.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything other than keep himself upright. He stared into nothing, throat working as he tried to pull his thoughts together, but it was like trying to hold water in a net. Norns, what would he do?

* * *

#

* * *

Loki hadn’t realised how much his food palate had changed until he tried to eat cooked meat that night. It was tough and unpleasant in his mouth, dry despite the broth it was served in, and far too hot. He choked the entire thing down, and he wasn’t surprised that no one had noticed his discomfort. No, what stunned him was the inconsideration they had for him. Hot food…. It came only as a dull surprise when he discreetly vomited it up half an hour later — a result of the food and the broiling emotions that upset his stomach. He buried the sick against a shadowy wall with snow and dirt in an effort to hide the acrid stench.

He was stuck so firmly in this mindset his mood worsened when Sif crouched next to him, concern written on her face.

“What do you want?” he said, tugging absently at the dampener.

“I’m sorry, Loki,” Sif said. Loki pulled himself further into shadow and continued to work at the runes. “About before. I know Thor was … a bit rough—”

“‘A bit’,” Loki scoffed. “What are you now? His defender? More than?”

Sif ignored the jibe. “Loki, he only wants the best for you.”

“By kidnapping me?”

“Bringing you home—”

“You’re deluded,” Loki said, stopping for a few seconds in what he was doing and looking around at her. “Use your brain for once in your life, Lady Sif. If it is indeed your deepest wish to take me back to Asgard, then this is not how to do it. I know that it must be so difficult for you to see beyond the steel of your sword and shield, but they are not the answers in this situation.”

Sif stood up and merely _looked_ at him. Loki too stood, oddly enjoying how he towered over her in this form. “You won’t even try to defend yourself? Or him?” he sneered after a few seconds of silence.

“What point is there?” Sif asked. “You would only twist my words. Goodnight, Loki. It would do you well to get some sleep.”

Loki growled at her, not moving a muscle until she walked away. He slumped back against the wall, interlacing his fingers and looking at his hands. He needed to leave, needed to get the dampener off _now_. Before Thor could make an even greater mess of this.

He had all night. He wasn’t in the remotest bit tired.

* * *

#

* * *

A couple of hours later, Volstagg, who was on watch near a window on the next floor, shattered the silence as he bellowed, “Thor!”

Loki, who had been thinking how to trick Thor into taking the dampener off, snapped his head up.

Thor had been leaning on him, and he too sat upright, Mjölnir flying to his hand at once. “Jötnar? How many? How far away?”

“One, and closing fast on a mount,” Volstagg said, grimacing. “A kilometre and a half out.”

Loki stood up fast, stalking past the stirring warriors as he went to the door.

“Loki, stay back,” Thor said, marching in front of him.

Loki ignored him, glaring at Thor flatly when he tried to get past him. “I will push you aside if I must,” he said stonily.

“I can deal with this,” Thor insisted. “It is one giant.”

Irritation prickled Loki’s skin.

“Thor, a kilometre out,” Volstagg warned.

Thor swore under his breath and jumped down. “Loki, _stay here_.” He barged out the door, Mjölnir swinging in his grip.

“Like Hel,” Loki hissed. He followed Thor into the snow.

A shriek sounded from within the ruins, and both Thor and Loki whipped around to see Loki’s káshta perched on a high building. It stared at them, the tip of the tail flicking back and forth, and a soft snarl on its muzzle.

Thor swung Mjölnir in a circle at the same moment Loki put his hand out and called, “Dveljask!”

But the beast ignored him, the muscles in its shoulders bunching before it pounced. It was big for Loki’s jötunn form, and so it positively dwarfed Thor. Thor dove aside as the káshta landed where he had been standing, placing itself between him and Loki, and screamed its rage again. Suddenly, an arrow flew out of the window of the tower, and the káshta shrieked as it buried itself in its shoulder.

“You idiot, Hogun,” Loki roared, spinning around and glaring at Hogun standing in the window. “I can hear better than you, and I can guarantee that whoever is coming would have heard it too. Thor, for the love of everything sacred _get back inside_. If you want to leave here in one piece, then do as I say.”

The káshta staggered, keening and whining as it tried to get at Hogun, but Loki rushed to it. He held it under the jaw, stroking the forehead and muttering in broken Jötunn to calm it down.

“Loki, kill it whilst you can, it’s only a burden,” Thor said.

“ _No._ ” Loki’s hiss was cold, and the Æsir looked at him, startled. Loki looked at them from under his brows. “If I kill it, then I’ve as good as said that I’ll go with you. I won’t. Is that what you really want — war? I have intimate knowledge of Asgard which, if I were forced to supply it to the jötnar, could mean Asgard’s downfall.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“I wouldn’t have a choice,” Loki snapped. “Run now and leave me, or you may just bring war upon Asgard. I can try and stall, allow you to get away, and for the love of the Norns go back to Asgard and do not seek me out again.”

“I have not come all this way to see you roll over for this,” Thor said. “There is only one rider, and one we can defeat easily if you stand with us.”

“You can’t kill them,” Loki said viciously. “If you do, you would have doomed yourselves.”

“Loki—”

“Get into the tower!”

It might have been the ferocity in Loki’s voice that made Thor finally obey. He retreated inside the door, closing it until a crack of space remained. And it wasn’t a second too soon, either.

A káshta came into the courtyard with none other than Angrboða riding it, a sword of ice balanced on her hip, her eyes scanning the area. She wore her shoulder plate armour. “Your Highness,” she said to Loki, “may I ask what it is exactly you’re doing out here? In Þengraðr?”

“Can I not go exploring?” Loki asked coolly. “Or is that a right I do not have? If this is to be my home for the next four thousand years, then I want to know it better.”

“With Þrymheimr radicals wandering these parts?” she asked. “Without leaving word of your expedition?”

“No one told me of that, nor that I had to tell anyone,” Loki said scathingly, rubbing the káshta’s side. He did his best to shield the arrow in its shoulder with his arm, not taking his eyes off Angrboða.

“Consider this your warning, then,” Angrboða said, furrowing her brow.

Loki absently scratched under the káshta’s jaw, careful not to jostle the arrow.

“You’re missed at the castle,” she continued, urging her own mount around Loki’s other side. Dread awoke in his gut, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable discovery of the arrow. He couldn’t move his arm lest it seem too suspicious. One lesson he had learnt in all of his years of lying was to know when you were caught, admit it upright. This was one of those times.

As she came around Loki’s other side, Angrboða’s eyes snapped to the arrow in the káshta’s shoulder. She slid off to take a closer look. “So, you have hidden arrows as well?” she asked in the Allspeak, clipped. “Arrows that you have decided to shoot at your own mount?”

Loki hummed and said simply, “I’d hoped to get rid of that before you saw.”

Angrboða snarled as she turned her káshta around, searching for the perpetrator. “Where are they?” she hissed. “Where are the Asgardians? Show yourselves!”

Mjölnir flew from the ruins, and Angrboða barely managed to pull the káshta out of the way. Even so, the hammer cracked into the beast’s flank, and it shrieked in pain. Angrboða snarled, and Loki too raised his own lip as Thor and the others came from the tower, weapons at the ready. Mjölnir flew back into Thor’s hand.

Angrboða’s eyes narrowed in recognition. “Just why are you here?” she snarled. “Sentimental reasons?”

“I’m here to send them back to their realm,” Loki replied hotly, “before this can turn into a political nightmare.” He locked eyes with Thor, and said with a soft snarl, “Just why would I want to see the Asgardians? I was their prisoner for over a thousand years, turned against my own kind by them.” He turned to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Angrboða, muscles bunched and crouching low. “I want nothing to do with them.”

“Loki, don’t do this,” Thor said lowly, tightening his grip on Mjölnir. “Don’t force us onto different sides.”

“That was done a long time ago,” Loki said. “Determined by _birth_.”

He leapt at Thor at the same time Angrboða swept her sword around, roaring her own challenge at Sif and the Warriors Three.

Loki’s vision narrowed as he and Thor collided. Loki was unable to burn him with ice, unable to summon his knives or cast the simplest of spells, and so all that was left to him were his claws. He used them. They were unable to pierce through Thor’s armour, skittering uselessly against the metal, and he stepped back, snarling. He knew the weak spots — eyes, face, neck, armpit, groin, backs of the knees, ankles. He knocked Thor away with his horns, biting back the hiss of pain as they ground into his skull.

Thor skidded backwards, digging his boots into the snow in an attempt to find a grip. Loki stalked forward and threw a punch at Thor, but Thor merely held Mjölnir in front of his face for protection. Loki’s fist cracked into the uru, and he whimpered as his felt two of his fingers pop from their sockets. Thor hooked his leg around Loki’s knee and pulled his feet out from under him. Loki hit the ground with a cry of pain, but the fight was far from over.

He rolled back onto his feet, injured hand held close to his chest, and wishing he could heal it. He could push the bones back himself, but he didn’t want to risk doing it here and now.

“Loki, stop—”

Loki threw himself at Thor. They clashed once more, and Loki pressed the advantage he knew would always be there: Thor’s unwillingness to use Mjölnir upon him. He kicked, he bit, and he hit Thor as hard as he could. Thor’s blows upon him were painful, and Loki thought dully of the great number of bruises he’d have later. They broke apart and collided before disengaging again and again, reminiscent of their many days during childhood. But this fight had none of their childhood playfulness, now. This fight was real, and mercy would not be spared.

But the fact had always been Thor was better than him in hand-to-hand. And so, when Thor head-butted Loki in the nose hard enough to send him stumbling away, Loki moved to desperation. He reached for Thor’s throat with his uninjured hand, missed it, and instead his fingers hooked on the chestplate. He managed to dislodge it enough for a chain to slip free.

The pendant was unmistakeably Amora’s work — a silver disc etched with runes that throbbed and glistened grass green. A complex charm to shield Thor and his companions from Heimdallr’s Sight. And complex, delicate charms were the easiest to break. Thor didn’t seem to notice it had come free, and he pushed Loki away. Loki fell on his back, scrabbling back on his elbows as Thor advanced on him. Loki was never going to win like this; his only defences were his teeth, claws, and horns. He was injured, exhausted, and emotionally drained. If Angrboða — who was slowly succumbing to the Æsir’s storm of attacks — was killed and Loki was taken to Asgard to be ultimately banished back to Jötunheimr, it would shatter the fragile peace between them. And Odin had no other jötunn princes to hand over as weregild.

 _Forgive me_ , Loki thought. When Thor was close enough, he grabbed the disc, and wrenched it from the chain.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki crushed the disc in his palm, and the smell of damp earth filled the air as Amora’s magic burst from the metal.

“Loki,” Thor choked.

Loki stood, holding the disc in his palm and breathing heavily. “I cannot allow you to do this,” he said lowly. “I will not suffer anymore because of your need to cool your head.”

“Where has the boy gone that would break rules in a heartbeat to get his own way?” Thor demanded.

“Crushed,” said Loki bitterly. He turned to Angrboða and called out, “Kryy þinn hönd, Angrboða.” Stay your hand.

Angrboða whirled around and jumped away from her fight, snapping and snarling at the Æsir.

“It’s over, Thor,” Loki whispered in the Æsir tongue. “I’m not going back. I’m not ready to die.”

“You won’t die.”

“Tell that to the Æsir who storm the castles in war and go after the royal family. I may not die in the next few nights, but I will eventually in the middle of a war brought about by you. I am sided with the jötnar now, whether you and I like it or not. Maybe if I were not royal it would be different, but I am.” He looked skywards. “Heimdallr! If there is one time you will listen to me, it is now. Send Bifröst to retrieve your crown prince and his foolish friends before they can wreak any permanent damage.” He went inside the tower to the packs by the witchfire and picked his up. He checked what was inside — clothes and weapons and food he could still use — and hoisted it over his shoulder. He stepped back outside. “Angrboða, we’ll be going now.”

“What of the Asgardians?”

“Forget about them; a fitting punishment will be exacted. We won’t want to be here when the Æsir arrive.” _I don’t want to be here. I cannot be here. I am dead to the Æsir, and seeing me would raise too many questions. I do not want them to know of my shame._

Angrboða didn’t look happy with Loki’s verdict. She spat something vile at the Æsir — Loki was glad they couldn’t understand it, lest they repeat the events of the first attack upon the realm.

“Loki.” Thor’s voice was pleading. “I …”

“I what?” Loki sneered. “There is nothing to say. Go back to your golden realm.”

“Loki no — don’t—”

“Farewell, Thor.”

Loki turned away and walked through the ruins. He looked over his shoulder to Angrboða as she followed him. Then his eyes slid to where Thor was standing and looking after him. Thor’s expression nearly broke his resolve — it was one of such heartbreak Loki’s first instinct was to fix it, but he steeled himself.

_Keep my secret, Brother. Please._

“Loki don’t—”

When Bifröst touched down to retrieve Thor and the warriors, Loki and Angrboða made sure to watch from the shadows.


	13. Chapter Eleven - Candour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 29-11-2015**

The storm that had awaited Thor upon his return to Asgard was the worst he had ever had to weather.

“If you want to be banished to Jötunheimr, it’d’ve been easier if you had just told me so!” the Allfather roared, slamming his fist on top of his desk.

“And it would be easier if you did not offer me half-concocted excuses as to why you caved so easily to Laufey’s demands!” Thor bellowed back.

“There are ten _trillion_ souls I am responsible for,” his father snarled. “And I will not put them at risk because you felt like cooling your head with actions of petty malice — actions that nearly broke out war once more. This goes beyond family, Thor. This is politics, and politics can be cruel.”

Thor wanted to smash something with Mjölnir, but she lay by the Allfather’s side, stripped from him and unreachable. Instead, he drove his fist into the table. Blood splattered the gold surface as his knuckles connected with the metal, but Thor ignored the pain from his hand such was the pain in his heart and the raging tempest in his mind. Loki was hurt, that much had now been confirmed by his own eyes, and yet all his father did was talk of _politics_. Frigga was standing by the window, the late afternoon sun spilling across the floor and illuminating her stony expression.

“Losing your temper will not help your position,” Odin continued.

“What else would you have me do?” Thor said, his voice shaking. “You … you _give_ my brother away like he is an object to pacify Laufey with. Then when I try to fix my wrong, you pull me back. Isn’t that what you always said: that we were to protect each other? But you have stranded him with no warning. He’s terrified.”

“I know.” Odin’s voice was so quiet Thor almost missed it. It was amazing how the conversation had been pulled down from such a volume so quickly, and Thor just wondered how it had happened. “I wish every day that I could bring him home, but I cannot. We would destroy Jötunheimr in another war—”

“Then why not destroy them?” Thor interrupted. “We could rid Yggdrasil of them once and for all; we could get Loki back—”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” There it was — that whip-quick anger once more. “Tell me, Thor: why nine realms?”

“Father?”

“Why are there nine realms? There are hundreds of worlds in this universe: the empire of the Skrulls; the Kree; the Shi’ar. Many more exist, but why are their empires not classified as realms of Yggdrasil?”

“I— I do not know.” He had been told why in his school days, but he couldn’t remember anymore. Schooling had been Loki’s joy, not Thor’s.

“And I thought you were ready to be king.” Odin looked him firmly in the eye and said, “We cannot destroy Jötunheimr because it is essential to the structure of the Tree. Nine is a powerful number in this universe. Nine is found everywhere: nine realms, nine nights I hung upon the Tree, nine points of the valknut, nine heavenly halls. Nine is a powerful number, and if that number were to be reduced to eight at any time, if one realm was to fall, the balance of Yggdrasil would be broken, and chaos would descend upon not only the remaining realms, but would spread to every corner of the universe. Laufey knows this, and he took advantage of it. We lose thousands of lives in war, and then trillions more in the aftermath.

“Our standing with Jötunheimr is tense, and it was a fear of mine you would, as you have, disturbed our fragile peace. That is why I took your brother. I took him because he had been left in their temple, alone, and I took pity upon him, and I saw an opportunity to seal a permanent peace between Asgard and Jötunheimr. Kings who would have grown up together, who would never wage war against the other because of shared brotherhood. That was my greatest wish when I beheld him all those centuries ago. But with your actions as of late, you are shaking this dream even more. You are as vital to this peace as he is.”

Thor’s mouth was dry. “Would it not have been better then to tell us of his true heritage?” he croaked. “It is as if you were begging for your own demise.”

“Your brother has a dark heart,” Odin said simply. “He would have found no friends in childhood, and he would have been bitter and afraid and alone. We hid the truth for his protection; protection from himself.”

“We did it because he is our son,” Frigga admonished, turning away from the window and walking on shaking legs to the table. She touched the bandages on his neck, and Thor winced as wounds from Loki’s claws — Norns, _Loki_ had done this to him with claws he had never had before — twinged uncomfortably.

Loki’s claws weren’t the only things that had left a lasting impression on Thor. He hadn’t been able to fully imagine Loki as a jötunn, and whatever images his mind had conjured had been far from the truth. For one, he had imagined Loki to be the same height as he always was, had imagined him without the scars flowing like rivers over the map of his skin, hadn’t imagined the possibility of horns like Laufey’s…. And when he had changed his form in front of Thor, turning from his brother to one of the frost giants … Thor’s first instinct had been to _kill_.

He’d never forgive himself for that.

Thor brushed his mother’s hand away. “And you are resigned to the Allfather’s decision, too?” he asked her bitterly.

“You cannot ask me such things,” Frigga murmured.

His father eventually broke the heavy silence that descended on them. “We will talk more of this later,” he said curtly. “I need time to think.”

“About what?” Thor asked.

“Something that will discourage you from doing something as rash as this again, and dissuade others from following in your footsteps.” Odin leant his knuckles on the desk, and Thor thought he looked very old all of a sudden. Much too old for his years. “I do not know what to do with you anymore,” he said. He waved Thor towards the door. “Go. Wait for my summons in your chambers.”

* * *

#

* * *

The summons came hours later. Thor was glad for them, because cabin fever had set in whilst he had been restricted as his father … what, _thought_? Thor stomped down the halls, clenching and unclenching his fists and refusing to make eye contact with any of the staff. It had given the claw marks on his neck time to heal, and they were nothing more than barely visible scars now. He couldn’t help but rub them every few seconds.

The doors were made of aged oak, carved and gilded with patterns and polished to perfection. The hinges groaned as Thor opened the doors without bothering to knock.

The bookshelves were an imposing sight, and the candle bracket suspended from the ceiling cast a soft light over the room. His father was seated at the mahogany desk on the raised dais at the head of the room. Geri and Freki were curled asleep at his side, and Huginn and Muninn looked at Thor with beady eyes from their perch.

“Did I tell you to enter?” Odin sighed, not even looking up from what was so engrossing him upon the desk.

“Did you register whether I wanted your permission?” Thor shot back.

Odin got to his feet and looked at him, weariness itching at his eye. “You may be my son, but that does not exempt you from showing manners.” Thor ignored him, instead looked at the top step of the dais. “Thor.”

“Yes, Father,” he ground out. “I’m sorry, Father.”

There was a pressed silence for a few seconds in which Thor fidgeted, eager to get this over with. He didn’t want to think upon the day’s events, or Loki, for any much longer lest he explode.

“We haven’t finished talking yet,” Odin said. The ravens shuffled their wings as he crossed from behind his desk, looking down upon Thor from the top of the dais. “You committed treason against the crown, and I cannot let that go unpunished.”

Thor swallowed. “I … I understand.” He knew what was coming.

A flogging. Treason was treason, and not even he was exempt from it.

“I will not make it public,” Odin said. “We cannot have the people see you being punished as such. Consider this my small act of kindness.”

“When?” Thor asked, bitter.

“At dawn.” His father sighed, and rubbed his temples. “I have no wish to put you under the whip, but you have given me very little choice in the matter. I cannot let you off lightly for what you did, no matter if you are my son or not.”

Thor nodded. “I understand, Father, and I shall receive my punishment as a warrior.”

* * *

#

* * *

There was a cover story, of course.

Frigga, no doubt looking calmer than she felt, was telling it to him. She sat on the opposite bench in the small room beneath the wooden stands; it led to the yard where Asgard’s floggings took place. Thor could see the T-shaped post upon the wooden stage from where he was seated now, the freshly polished chains on each arm glinting in the dawn sun. The whipping was in ten minutes, and the tramp of boots above their heads was prevalent.

“You have been accused of treason,” Frigga told him, “for you went against your father’s word, and breached Jötunheimr looking for revenge against those whom killed your brother. You were, however, found out before you could do any lasting damage.”

Thor nodded in understanding. “How many people are there?” he asked.

“Five hundred, perhaps,” Frigga said. “A small audience, as your father decreed.”

Thor would have rather had a hundred thousand people watching him, for seeing why he would be suffering the whipping: for his brother. Thor deserved as much for leaving him in the cold wastes of Jötunheimr. A thousand _ifs_ were running through his head now that he faced the consequences head-on. If only he had just _taken him_. Found him and if they had called for Heimdallr to retrieve them at once using Bifröst, and they should have been done with it immediately, their clandestine Ævaleysa be damned.

“I can’t help but think of what it would be like now if Father had refused the monsters their due,” Thor said. “Perhaps we would have been at war, but Loki would have been—”

His mother slapped him sharply, the crack of sound echoing in the small space. Thor stared at her, his cheek flaring with pain, and his eyes widening in shock. “Mother—?”

“Monsters, are they?” she fumed. “Is your brother a monster too, then?”

“No, of course not—”

“But you call his birth family that very same term, so would it not be logical that he, being related to them, is afflicted with the title as they are? I have told you this once as I have told you a thousand times over: the jötunns—”

“Jötnar, Mother,” Thor interrupted, a sad smile coming to his lips. “Jötnar is correct plural for them.”

Frigga’s eyes softened, but her voice remained clipped. “The jötnar are not monsters, Thor. They are just like you and I, and I am ashamed of you that you have degraded them to such a thing as monsters.”

Thor said nothing. _How much of that do you think is true, Mother?_ he thought. _Do you really mean it, or do you just say it for Loki? Look at what they have done to our family. Only monsters could do such a thing and not feel any remorse; they’ve destroyed my brother._

Whatever his mother said, that the jötnar were not monsters in body, they were monsters in mind and practice. Loki’s words ricocheted throughout his head:

_“Laufey starved me for a near month because I refused to bow before him …”_

_“I’m not your brother!”_

_“I’m not coming with you … I never want to see you again.”_

They were monsters, and nothing that anyone could say could change that simple fact. And if Loki had grown up jötunn … Thor shuddered. He would have turned out monstrous. If Thor didn’t save him, perhaps that would happen. Odin had called Loki’s heart dark, and Thor knew just what he had meant.

Frigga stood and cupped his face, her posture still stiff and disapproving. “I must go and stand by your father, now. Be strong, my boy. It will be over soon.”

Thor merely nodded.

When she left, he gathered his hair up and tied it into a knot at the base of his head, wiping the sweat from his neck away at the same moment. He rested his elbows on his knees and entwined his fingers, waiting. Two or so minutes after his mother had left, four of the Einherjar came into the room and stood, waiting for the order to bring Thor out to the post.

“Prince Thor,” one of them said after a couple of minutes of silence. “It is time.”

Thor stood and shed his shirt. The cool air of the dawn kissed his skin, and he rolled his shoulders, facing the stage and holding his chin high. The guards stood around him, and they walked out into the open.

The wooden arena was the emptiest Thor had ever seen for a whipping, the higher benches, for once, free of spectators. The public had not been invited to attend; only those of high status had been allowed.

 _Private indeed,_ Thor thought. It was as private as a whipping could get — humiliation was half the punishment, after all.

Those who were there, though, were high-class nobles dressed in fine silks and furs, precious metals and stones flashing in the light. Einherjar were standing rigid at the edges of the stands, forming a barrier between the sandy floor and the lowest bench. But the stage dominated the scene, and it was this Thor’s eyes fixated upon.

The chattering of the crowd reduced to whispers and murmurs as Thor emerged, and he did not shudder as he strode to the steps and mounted them. Standing upon the spectators’ platform, which Thor himself had stood on an uncountable amount of times, were his parents. Odin was dressed in his royal regalia, the bronze horns of his helm glinting in the sun and his mantle stirring in the breeze like many of the banners surrounding him.

Gungnir made a sharp sound throughout the area, and the murmured of the crowd died at once. “Thor Odinson,” Odin started, “you have been brought here before all to see to receive punishment. You have committed treason against the crown, knowing full well of your actions and what they entailed. You trespassed into the realm of Jötunheimr, and, as a result, risked the peace we hold with the realm. Do you deny any of this?”

“No,” Thor said, his voice clear. He would not cower like a scolded child.

“Spare him punishment!” The shout from the crowd was so sudden that Thor looked around sharply. A woman stood up, her eyes fixed on his father. “Jötunheimr is responsible for the death of Prince Loki, and revenge should be taken for it. What prince, or _king_ , of Asgard would not try to seek vengeance for the death of their kin?”

The silence was heavy, and there were mutters from the crowd.

Two of the Einherjar ringing the area strode forward, pushing their way through the crowd to grasp the woman by her upper arms. They hauled her away.

“You sit here and do nothing!” she shrieked. “You—” One of the guards clamped his hand over her mouth as she was removed from the scene.

Odin banged Gungnir upon the platform once again, his eye flashing dangerously. “Prince Thor has gone against my word, the word that is law, and by doing so he has risked war and therefore the lives of your loved ones. By storming Jötunheimr as crown prince, he carries Asgard upon his back, whilst three jötnar, who were no more than individuals acting independently from the word of King Laufey, are no more than that: outliers who were doomed to fail. Many jötunn lives were lost in the initial storming, more were taken in the second, and that has been repaid in the life of my son.”

But now the crowd was growing restless; the shout had been the catalyst of a reaction. They wanted war — something Loki, and by extension Thor, did not want.

“Treason has been committed, and punishment must still be exacted,” Odin shouted over the masses.

Thor spoke: “I have committed treason and broken my father’s word after he ordered me not to go to Jötunheimr for revenge,” he called. “I may be the Son of Odin, but my blood does not prevent me from receiving punishment, just like you. I will not be exempted from this ruling.”

The crowd quietened somewhat at Thor’s words, and he put his hands on the arms of the post. Under his palms, he could feel the scrapes left by fingernails from previous victims of the whip. Two of the Einherjar that had flanked him fastened the manacles around his wrists and forced him to his knees. The stage had been brushed with sand to absorb the blood; it was uncomfortable to kneel on, every grain felt even through his trousers. He opened his mouth for the offered leather wrapped dowel to bite down upon from the pain of the whip, lest he damage his mouth or tongue. The leather was dry and tasted foul, but he didn’t complain.

“As punishment, Thor Odinson, you will receive fifty lashes,” Odin said.

The steps creaked as a new person climbed up to stand behind him. Thor waited, his shoulders tense. He heard the whip cut through the air.

Thor’s back arched as the whip broke the skin. It was like fire across his shoulders, and he grunted in pain, biting down on the dowel and screwing his eyes shut.

“One!”

He had little respite before the next lash cut across his back. Thor’s shoulder hit the post, and he grunted, gripping the chains as he got his knees back under him.

“Two!”

The whispers and murmurs of the crowd were lost to him as the whip licked his back a third time.

“Three!”

 _Forty-seven more to go_ , Thor thought, refusing to unclench his jaw. It was slowly become stiff as the muscles cramped. _How strange_ , was the next unbidden thought in his mind, _to have gone from the glorious crown prince of Asgard to the traitor stripped bare before all of them within such a short time_.

The elusive _them_ of the spectators; the spectators that were opposed to him being lowered before them like this.

Another stripe of pain blazed across his shoulders

“Four!”

Thor rested his forehead against the post, closing his eyes and concentrating on his breathing. Blood soaked his breeches, mixing with the sweat in the small of his back. The rough sandy ground under his knees was a forgotten pain now.

“Five!”

Thankfully, the sun was beginning to rise; he didn’t have to suffer its effects like many others before him when their punishments had been scheduled for high noon.

The dowel shook between his teeth as the whip cut into his back yet again.

“Six!”

Even though the pain was nothing new, it still hurt to a blinding degree. And there were forty-four lashes to go. He could do it; he’d endured worse pain than this. There were mere minutes to go, but those minutes suddenly seemed like hours.

“Seven!”

All he had to do was wait, and then it would be over.

It became somewhat easier when he stopped listening to the count. He just knelt with his hands chained above him to the crossbeam, his eyes closed, and concentrating on the dowel between his teeth and its foul taste. His mouth was full of saliva, and it dribbled between his lips. But despite his best efforts, he could not ignore the white-hot pain that slashed at his shoulders and back every time the whip fell.

Soon, seven doubled to fourteen, fourteen to twenty-eight, and Thor’s back was aching and burning and throbbing, and the pain of each wound melted into a whole soon enough. His skin was wet with blood, and it was with a sinking despair he realised he had gone through just over half of the lashes. But halfway was better than a quarter of the way there, or a tenth. His grip tightened on the chains holding his hands high, and his eyes narrowed as he clenched his jaw tighter on the leather dowel. It was not uncommon for those receiving fifty lashes to fall unconscious from the pain, from the blood loss, from exhaustion. But he would walk away from this on his own two feet, and he would not make a sound.

He focused on the grain of the wood on the post mere centimetres from his nose, tracing the patterns through watering eyes as the thirty-second lash was called to the spectators. He wondered how bad the scars were to be — if they would fade to almost nothing in time, or if they would be unmissable stripes branded into his back for the rest of his days.

 _That was the prince who was put under the whip_ , the stories would say, _because he missed his jötunn brother. How disgusting._

“Forty-one!”

Thor blinked rapidly, finding his forehead stuck to the post with sweat. What? They had been on thirty-two lashes mere seconds ago! _Had_ he slipped into unconsciousness briefly? His knuckles were white from gripping the chains as lashes forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, and forty-six were delivered. He rested his forehead against the beam, and hissed with relief as “Fifty!” was finally, finally called out.

The manacles were unlocked, and Thor’s arms fell like lead weights to his sides. He let the dowel fall numbly from his mouth, and he was breathing heavily in an attempt to fight down the shouts of pain that longed to burst forth from his throat. His back, shoulders, sides, and even the backs of his thighs were burning with pain and wet with blood. He felt like vomiting.

“The punishment has been delivered,” his father said, but his voice sounded like it came from underwater — it was muffled and far away, and Thor’s world consisted of pain and the drowning thought of, _Loki Loki Loki._

Supporting shoulders were under his arms as he was lifted to his feet, and he didn’t say a word as they half dragged him from the stage. When he was back in the waiting room, he collapsed on the narrow bench, blackness clouding his vision as he heard someone say, “Stretcher; now.”

* * *

#

* * *

“You know, it’s a real shame you didn’t get Loki back; I’m sick of all this unnecessary death fanfare for a man who does not need it.”

The sharp smell of crushed herbs and potions filled the air, stinging his nostrils and slicing at his lungs like a knife. Thor stirred and cracked open an eye. He was lying on his stomach, his arms at his sides, and his cheek squashed into a mattress. His back burned; itchy bandages pressed into the skin. It was incredibly uncomfortable, and he tried to roll onto his back, but a gentle, if firm, hand between his shoulder blades prevented him. Long nails pressed into his skin.

“Get out, Amora.” He didn’t want her here when he was injured in such a humiliating way. He didn’t want her here at all.

“After everything I’ve done for you recently?” she asked.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “What you’ve done for me recently is cause nothing but a headache,” Thor said.

“It was a headache you brought upon yourself. Now, I may be remembering events incorrectly, but I recall it was you who forcibly bullied me into giving you the means to not only get to Jötunheimr, but to shield yourself from Heimdallr’s Sight.”

“You agreed.”

“Well, you asked and then pulled rank on me. I would call that bullying. Hardly an image fit for a prince.”

“Tell me why I should not call for the Einherjar, Amora,” Thor said to change the subject.

“Because I know you, Odinson — you won’t, for your pride if nothing else,” Amora said flatly. She crossed her arms, eyebrow cocked, and a smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Besides, I’ll be gone in about, oh—” she looked towards the door, “—five minutes, give or take?”

Thor didn’t want to tolerate her for those five minutes, but she was right — he wouldn’t call for the guards. Loki may have been the prouder of the two of them, Thor always the one who wore his heart on his sleeve, but he was not so full of humility that he would call the guards to escort a woman away. He tried to get up, but Amora once again put her hand on his back and pushed him down. Thor bit back a groan as the wounds flared with pain.

“Now, now, we wouldn’t want to tear the scabs,” she said. “But since I don’t have much time, let us instead cut to the meat of the matter: your little excursion to Jötunheimr has not remained as secret as old One-Eye would have hoped. Tales are spreading not just amongst the nobility, but are reaching the ears of the common people too.”

“You will address my father, the king, by his proper title,” Thor said lowly.

“Or what?” crooned Amora. “Are you going to punish me?”

“I may find another reason to do so, if not for this,” Thor said.

“Well then, let me continue my minor offence against the crown. Now, as I was saying, your trip to Jötunheimr is well on its way to becoming common knowledge. And do you know what’s happened as a result?”

“What?” Thor muttered, disliking how ignorant he sounded for it.

“Asgard is splitting itself down its seams,” Amora said simply. “Your coronation and swearing of your oaths, whilst interrupted, was essentially completed. You swore yourself to the realm, and there are some of the people who have merely overlooked those last few words that were not said by Odin. Whilst you may not officially be in the position to take the throne, you are in the hearts of the people. The Sleep is fast approaching, and, when it comes, you will take the throne until the Allfather awakens.

“Now, this is where the problem comes in. You and your brother are causing the realm far too much trouble as of late. You storm Jötunheimr in want of vengeance against the jötnar for breaking into the Weapons Vault and nearly taking not only the Casket, but many other highly dangerous, and highly valuable, artefacts. That was a blow to Asgard’s pride, and now with Loki’s death, that has struck an even deeper blow in it. The people are outraged because of what Loki’s death symbolises, even if he is alive and well. He was a prince, the son of Odin — the most powerful man in the realms — and yet, when his son dies at the hands of monsters, the Allfather does nothing to avenge him.

“The people are praising you for what you’ve done. They think you stormed Jötunheimr a second time looking for revenge against your brother’s death, and many agree with that thinking. Asgard’s pride was hurt, and the people have wanted to permanently end the jötnar for centuries. This is the perfect excuse to do so, but Odin has done nothing. The people are starting to question him and your recent punishment for doing what many deem to be right and just is further cementing their new views on the royal family. They stay where they are, though, because the Allfather is still the Allfather. But come the Sleep …” Amora smiled. “Many will be queuing upon Bifröst to go to Jötunheimr to wage war.”

Thor had become rigid, the pain in his back trickling away to a distant worry as he listened to what Amora was saying. The logic made sense, and he wasn’t heartened by it. Part of him wanted to leap at the chance of war with Jötunheimr, to kill the monsters and to take Loki back so everything could be reverted to how it had been before. But Loki’s reasons for not wanting war, as well as his father’s recent revelations, were quiet reminders as to why such a thing would not be a good idea.

“Why are you here, Amora?” Thor said finally. “You must not have come all this way into Valaskjalf just to tell me of the unrest I will surely be confronted with soon enough.”

“I wanted to tell you how disappointed I am you failed to bring Loki back,” she said, shrugging. “I’m afraid our five minutes are almost up. I’m grateful you woke up as soon as I stepped foot inside the door. You have my thanks for that.”

Thor grunted — she had woken him, there was no doubt about that.

“Now, I must be off. A pleasure talking to you as always, prince.”

She turned to the door and left quietly. Thor had the room to himself for mere seconds before the doors opened again. Three people came in: his parents and another woman, Eir. Eir was of middling-age, with auburn hair held back in a stiff plait that reached her waist, and she wore the dark blues robes of the healers; a silver brooch above her heart signified her position as the head healer. Upon her hip was a small basket full of jars of ointments, potions, and bandages.

“You’re awake,” Eir said, bustling to his side at once. Her fingers ghosted over the wounds littering his back, and Thor bit his lip to mute the noise of pain. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen you and your brother in these rooms,” she continued, seating herself on a stool and unscrewing one of the jars, “but I do not wish to see you here again with these sorts of injuries.” She pulled the bandages up and Thor grimaced; they were sticky with blood and pulled at the little skin that was left on his back.

“I’ll try not to,” Thor chuckled. “I have no wish to experience such a thing again.” His eyes strayed to his parents.

“I’m sorry that this was necessary,” Odin said.

Thor hissed as Eir rubbed the ointment into his back, and the wounds throbbed in unison. “I committed treason,” he said, moving to his elbows despite Eir’s protests. “You took the steps that were called for you to take, and I do not begrudge you because of it.”

His father nodded. “I’m glad you understand.”

_But just because I understand doesn’t mean I agree with you._

The truth was, if Thor could have gone to Jötunheimr again, if he could succeed in a second rescue attempt, and even if it meant he would have to endure a thousand lashes for it, he would do it. Loki had wanted him to kill him, and Thor would never be able to purge that memory from his mind. But he was here, lying in these golden halls full of warmth and light, and he would be unable to do much for a few days whilst his back healed. It was useless.

And, to his outrage, his father seemed to have guessed what he was thinking. “You are my son through and through, Thor, and I know that you will not give up so easily. Your mother and I have therefore ordered that a troop of Einherjar will escort you everywhere until you are deemed worthy of my trust once more. You are not to leave this realm until that trust is restored.”

Thor ground his teeth, simmering. “Yes, Father.”

“If you disobey me once again, I will be forced to order more lashes upon you, and the next time it will be one hundred, and you will be restricted to Valaskjalf. And if you still insist on finding more ways into Jötunheimr, then one hundred and fifty lashes will be given, and you will be restricted to your rooms. Any more times than this, and you will find yourself in the dungeons, stripped of all titles and rank until further notice.”

“So you would hand me Loki’s fate, then?” Thor said, not caring that Eir was there and listening. But what did it matter? Thor was sure Eir had known of who and what Loki was from the start. She had been the one to pull Thor into the worlds, and would have no doubt done so for Loki if he were born Æsir. She would have been told of the origin of her queen’s second son, if only to explain the lack of Frigga’s pregnancy. Eir had treat Loki when he had fallen ill, altering his medicine for whichever occasion. Thor had made fun of it in their younger years.

Odin’s cloak whispered along the ground as he started to pace at the foot of the bed; Thor watched him closely, silently daring him to say something more.

Finally:

“There have been a great number of times I myself have wished to go to Jötunheimr and take Loki back, but as a king, I cannot. You must learn this, Thor. Holding on to Loki will not help ease your pain; it will hold the wounds open, and we will all be worse off for it.”

Thor couldn’t help but let out a bark of a laugh. “You’re asking me to expel Loki from my life after he has been at my side for as long as I can remember? A thousand years cannot be undone in a thousand words, Father.”

“They cannot be undone,” Odin agreed, “but you are not helping matters by going to him. If you wish to help Loki, you will do as I say. I say this not as the Allfather, but as your father, and Loki’s.”

Thor bit his lip, and Eir took advantage of his silence to push him back to the bed so she could properly administer treatment on his back.

Odin was quiet for a few more seconds before he said, “Excuse me. I need to start to soothe the waters with the crowds. You did well today, my son, and I hope you will be well enough to join your mother and me for the evening meal.”

Thor nodded, not making any promises; the last thing he wanted to do was to sit and share a civilised meal with his father. Odin looked at him thoughtfully before he strode through the chamber doors; they slammed behind him.

Frigga crossed to the other side of the bed and sat down gracefully, reaching for one of Thor’s hands and squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “You took your punishment like a man.”

“I was under the impression that was what I was,” he joked.

Frigga laughed quietly. “But Thor, please — for your sake and everyone else’s, please do not go to Jötunheimr again. I implore of you.”

“You are content to leave your youngest in the hands of the jötnar?”

“Would he be any happier here?” Frigga asked in all seriousness. “If you know your brother, if you love your brother, then you will not bring him back. Asgard would only offer painful memories for him, and he will hate everyone and everything here — do not try to deny it. He would be a broken soul wandering these halls. I know you mean good, but if you wish the best for him, you will leave him in Jötunheimr. He has family there.”

“Just because he has family there does not mean it will be alright,” Thor said.

Frigga’s hands tightened on his. “Please, Thor. If there was a greater need for family than in a time like this, I cannot and have no wish to imagine it. We need each other to stay strong in the face of this; we need to be united, for our own good and the good of the realm and, by extension, Yggdrasil. I know it is not fair of me to ask you things like this, but please, my son, listen to your father and me.”

Thor thought of what Amora said about Asgard splitting itself, its people silently siding themselves between the father and son. His back was starting to throb with pain, despite Eir’s attentions to it. He was working himself up too much, and all three of them knew it.

“My prince, please quiet yourself,” Eir said. “You will do yourself no favours.”

Thor settled himself down, grimacing as Eir’s fingers worked the ointment in.

After a few minutes of silence, he said, “How can I when listening to you means abandoning Loki?”

“By listening to me and your father,” Frigga said, “you will begin to heal.”

* * *

#

* * *

He didn’t sleep well that night; the fast healing wounds on his back ached. But over all the pain, Loki whispered again and again, _You’re not my brother you’re not my brother you could never call something so monstrous as I a brother Thor you are the true Odinson never I never I—_

When he awoke, the early morning sun shone through the high windows of the healing halls. He growled, throwing an arm up to block the light. He’d gotten maybe an hour of sleep altogether, and he felt terrible for it. His wrists had, overnight, blossomed a spectacular black and blue with bruises from the manacles—

Manacles.

Manacles….

Oh Norns.

The dampener he had brought with him to Jötunheimr was still clamped on Loki’s wrist. Loki was alone with that jötunn woman and cut off from his magic, and that meant his knives, his shifting, and, dare he think it, his hereditary jötunn magic. The very thought of the dampener had been driven from his mind in the attack Loki had mounted, and in the crushing despair of Amora’s charm being broken.

Damn his father: he had to go back.

He shot from his bed, hissing with pain as he pulled on a shirt from the neatly stacked pile at the end of the bed before he slipped as quietly out of the door as he could. He sprinted down Valaskjalf’s corridors, not bothering to apologise when he ran into early morning servants going about their duties. Five minutes later, he was galloping across Bifröst, spurning his horse along with hard kicks, snappings of the reins, and loud shouts of “Hah!” He desperately tried to ignore the scabs littering his back as they cracked and broke.

“Heimdallr!” he bellowed, leaping from the horse as it pulled up outside the Himinbjörg Observatory with a snort. “I must be to Jötunheimr; Loki’s magic is still bound, and I must free him from that is anything else.”

The Gatekeeper cast him an amused glance. “You underestimate your brother’s abilities, Prince Thor.”

“Spare your petty malice of him,” Thor snarled, leaning heavily on the horse’s side. “Send me to Jötunheimr so I can correct at least one of my wrongs. I shall do no more harm by him, and if it means I must endure a thousand floggings more, then so be it.”

“There is no need,” Heimdallr informed him.

Thor’s jaw dropped, but soon his anger burnt brightly again. “Heimdallr—”

“There is no need because your brother has already freed himself from his bonds.”


	14. Chapter Twelve - Only a Memory of Grandeur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 29-11-2015**

They had chosen to pitch camp in one of Þengraðr’s larger buildings. Loki had, after a long, bloody, and painful struggle, pulled the arrowhead out of the káshta’s shoulder. It and Angrboða’s were curled together next to the wall. Hers was fast asleep, whilst Loki’s was licking its shoulder clean. Loki had used the arrow shaft to make a splint for his dislocated fingers.

Loki would have healed both his fingers and the káshta if not for the dampener. He was clawing at it when Angrboða returned, several fish on lines slung over her shoulder.

As she was pulling the hooks from their mouths, she lifted her chin at the káshta and asked, “How deep did the arrow go?”

“Deep.” Loki dug his claws under the band, attempting to break the runes scored on the inside. He hadn’t made any further progress since she’d left, but he was hopeful. He had to be. “It won’t be ready to run until at least another three nights.”

“He,” Angrboða corrected, dropping one of the fish in front of Loki. At first he ignored the food, even when his stomach demanded him to eat. Angrboða sighed and said, “Loki, _eat_.” He threw her a look, then abandoned the dampener and reached for his dinner.

The flesh was surprisingly salty, and the little bones caught between his teeth before he crunched them down to powder. As he lapped the blue-grey blood from his fingers, he was thoroughly glad Thor couldn’t see him as he was now. He threw the head and tail to the káshta, who snapped them up greedily before it retreated to cleaning its wound. He returned his attention to the dampener.

After she had finished eating a fair few minutes later, Angrboða leant back against the wall and eyed him critically. “Why?”

Why had he gone to Thor.

Loki glowered; she was asking the personal _why_ now. “I couldn’t help it,” he eventually said to the dampener. “I felt like I would have gone mad ignoring him.”

Angrboða tilted her head to the side. “So you did create a bond with him. That’ll be disadvantageous.”

“Bond?” It sounded like something important.

“The connections that we forge with those closest to us,” Angrboða said, waving a hand. “It’s something that increases in strength over time, and if it gets to such a point of strength, it’s hard for one to live through when it’s broken.”

Loki shrank back at the idea, and he hissed as the edge of a claw nicked the soft skin of his wrist. “How do you know when it’s broken?”

Angrboða’s expression seemed to soften to a degree at the words, and she sighed, leaning back. “You know because it is so damn painful. Some seek death to alleviate the pain, others get fucked off their faces drinking undiluted marmennill blood, but …” She sighed again. “You’ll know when one breaks.”

Loki snorted. “Is there anything else I need to know about my biology? Or is that it?”

Angrboða’s eyes didn’t stray from him. “Putting aside bodily functions that I hope to Oblivion you’ve already figured out, your shifting, the calling that you experience during the Nóttvísa, and …” Her voice was unwavering as she said, “and the _kyn_.”

Loki’s gut twisted at the obvious gravity of the words. Fárbauti had mentioned it too during the celebrations. And so, it was that he asked about first: “What’s the _kyn_?”

“Do you really know so little about yourself?” There was no mocking in Angrboða’s tone. “It’s … oh, damn this language … how do you say it? Simply: you’ll want to fuck a lot of people.”

Loki finally stopped fiddling; his stomach felt like it had fallen to somewhere past his ankles. _That_ was what it was. He knew what she was talking about now. It had always seemed strange to him that, in Asgard during the winter months, he had always sought out bedmates with something close to obsession. Once, he had taken up fifteen different partners during a winter, and always it had bugged him as to why his behaviour had so dramatically changed during that time. Now it was laid upon the table with horrible clarity.

Heat.

Like a dog.

He barely bit back the string of profanity running rampant in his head.

“It’s a time we take much joy in,” Angrboða continued. “Winter is when it is best to conceive young. It is why _kyn_ is written into our very bones. It brings the warmth back for one, and it brings births in the summer. Many women are ready to give birth now, and no doubt you’ll be seeing it around. You were born then, closer to autumn. And how the realm celebrated in that time of war. I remember it well.”

“Stop it.”

“Why are you so opposed to it?” Angrboða demanded. “It is who you are, and you can’t change that. It would be easier on yourself as well if you just accepted it. The _kyn_ will happen to you as it happens to all of us, and you will be miserable if you do not follow it. You won’t survive the winter.”

Loki stalked to the corner of the room, shoving his pack against the wall and resting his head on it. He was exhausted, emotionally drained, and shaking with hate and revulsion. Sleep seemed like the best option at this time.

Angrboða scoffed at him, and he heard her rearranging her own things so she too could turn in for the day. Loki hoped his dreams wouldn’t be full of his brother, nor of the she-jötnar.

* * *

#

* * *

A crash and a scream of rage awoke him maybe an hour or two later. Loki’s eyes snapped open as a hand wrapped around one of his horns, pulling him upright and slamming him back against the wall. He cried out in sheer reflex, still half-asleep, but closed his mouth as a knife was shoved under his jaw.

“Well,” someone crooned, “look what we have here. Let me extend to you my most gracious welcome, Loki-Prince.”

“Fala, how many times have I told you not to tease your prey?”

“Oh let me have _some_ fun with the Æsir dog, Aurnir.”

Loki didn’t dare move his head to get a better glance at the she-jötunn holding the icy knife to his throat, so he instead tried to get a better look at her from the corners of his eyes.

“Many souls in Þrymheimr wish to send their greetings to the returned prince,” the she-jötunn said.

“I’m glad that you know who I am,” Loki said dryly in the Allspeak. “And who are you? I certainly don’t recognise you.”

“Do you mock me?” she snarled. Loki, surprised at the outburst, turned his head to better look at her.

She was short, her long hair so tangled and matted Loki thought she hadn’t seen a brush or comb in a long time. A faint electric charge of magic ebbed from her skin — stray wisps that seemed to cling to her like algae to a rock. Someone else’s magic, then. But what came as a jolt was her lack of heritage lines. Her skin would have been unblemished if not for the battle scars twisting themselves over her abdomen, chest, and neck.

_Why—?_

The answer as to her lack of heritage lines and her words presented itself to his mind at once. The jötnar were obsessed with the idea of lineage and family, and so the lack of such a badge must have meant—

“Bastard, huh?” Loki said.

The knife dug into his neck even more. “You shut your mouth.”

Loki growled, looking around for Angrboða. Five other jötnar were in the room, two of them holding Angrboða. Her hands had been pinned to the wall with ice, her mouth clamped shut likewise. One had his hands in her hair, the other his foot in her stomach. Her legs were crushed beneath her, held down with ice. The other three jötnar were prowling around the káshtar; Angrboða’s was crouching low over Loki’s in an effort to protect it, the lip drawn back in a vicious snarl. As he watched, the jötnar began to build a wall of ice, sealing the beasts behind it. They yowled loudly as the ice locked them away. Only two of the jötnar had heritage lines, and these ones were so simplistic they were obviously nothing more than commoners.

“You will concentrate on me, not her,” the she-jötunn holding Loki said. She traced his throat languidly, and Loki winced as he felt the edge nick his skin. In response to the pain, the dampener sparked as it caught his stray magic, absorbing it with a bright flash.

The she-jötunn looked to it sharply. “What’s that?”

Then came a sliver of an idea. The magic that was on her skin wasn’t hers; there was a high possibility of magic caster amongst their numbers, and if there was, if the magic hadn’t been picked up from a backstreet market or something similar, were they in the room, or were there more of them? He could get the dampener off, but only if he took the gamble and played the situation right.

Loki said in false pride, “My sire gifted it to me, to amplify my magic.”

She held his splintered fingers and bent them back; Loki writhed and hissed with pain. “Take it off,” she said. “Now!”

“You think I’m an idiot?” Loki exclaimed. If there was a time and a place to act like a fool though, this was it. Stupidity and arrogance were things he needed to employ now, so he did. “Why should I take it off?”

She grabbed at it, trying to wrench it from him.

Loki cried, “I’m not risking it being snatched off by the likes of you! I’ve charmed it shut.”

She dug her knife further into his neck. “Take it off now, or I’ll cut your hand off and take it that way.”

Loki laughed. “Such tough words from a lowlife bastard like you. You wouldn’t dare harm one of Jötunheimr’s princes when he is under your power. Challenge me like a real jötunn would, or would you rather have more shame brought upon your head by gutting one such as I when I cannot fight back?”

She cut him across the cheek. Loki bore his teeth.

Angrboða thrashed, snarling from behind the gag, and Loki threw her a look that said as best he could, _Stop. Leave this to me._

The message seemed to get across, for Angrboða complied, seething.

“Challenge me,” Loki dared. “Go on, challenge me to _hólmganga_.”

The she-jötunn snorted, replacing her knife at his throat and crouching low. “You think that I’m stupid? I’m not going to challenge you to such a fight; that would be suicide.”

Loki was assessing her quietly. She would pick on his weaknesses as he was picking on hers, and, sure enough, the conversation came back to the dampener.

She smiled, her teeth needle-like. “We’ll do this the hard way. Aurnir, hold him down.”

One of the bastard jötnar marched forth and grabbed Loki under the chin. He squirmed as the she-jötunn took his wrist and froze it in an attempt to get the dampener off. The cold of Jötunheimr to his Æsir skin was laughable compared to this — this was true, bone biting _cold_. It bit into his flesh, and he threw his head back and cried out through gritted teeth.

“He’s meek, isn’t he?” the jötunn holding him, Aurnir, sneered. “Perhaps you _should_ challenge him, Fala. Perhaps there was some mix up and he’s not of Laufey’s blood; I see little of our king within him. Maybe he’s Fárbauti’s bastard she’s passing off as the king’s son.”

Fala ignored him and continued to freeze Loki’s wrist. But Æsir forged steel was nothing easily broken; the dampener was too strong. Loki gasped in relief as she released him. His fingers were numb from the cold, and he was shivering violently. He had no need to fake the moan that broke from his throat. Ice cracked and crunched as his fingers twitched.

“This is pathetic,” Fala snorted. She pulled at the dampener, but it still held firm. “ _Skít_ … I want this off him. Gyllir, go get Hrimgerd.”

A boy scampered off.

Fala’s attention turned to the horn she held, and she twisted it; Loki made a sound of pain.

“Huh, interesting. This is going to be fun. Maybe I should break them and wear them myself; surely I would wear them better than you.”

“ _Beiskaldi_ ,” Loki spat. _Bitch._

Fala wrenched on the horn. “Insult me again, and I’ll twist it all the way around. Or how about this: take that bracelet of yours off, or both the horns go. I’ve heard it’s painful on your part, not to mention the _shame_ —”

Loki spat in her face.

She caught his wrist again and encased it with ice. This time, Loki howled with anger more than pain. Fala laughed, wiping her face on her shoulder.

“Fala.”

Fala scowled at Loki and backed away. He sagged, coughing.

A hand grabbed his chin and forced his head up. Loki’s eyes were watering with pain, and he bore his teeth at the jötunn who held him. The double heritage lines spoke of someone of lowborn noble birth, which came to Loki as a surprise; what would someone of such a status be doing with a group like this? The cloak of direwolf fur around his shoulders was battered and torn, the teeth strung on the leather cord at his neck clinked against each other as he moved.

“Fala, why have you summoned me?”

“Complications,” she sniffed, flicking her eyes to Angrboða who snarled lividly.

Hrimgerd grunted, his eyes never wavering from Loki’s. “Our apologies, Asgardian,” he said, sounding like he was anything but apologetic.

Loki said nothing. He strained against the ice holding his hand prisoner, and Fala caught the movement. “Sir, I called you because of what he’s wearing. He said it was a magic amplifier, and we can’t get it off.”

“Gifted to me by my sire,” Loki said. “You would never get it off; it’s too powerful for weak, Þrymheimr loyal things like you to break.”

Hrimgerd reached for it, fingers glowing white as he touched it. So, he was the mage. That meant trouble if he was so brazenly examining the dampener. In an effort to scare him off, Loki pulled as hard as he could at his own magic, and the dampener sparked angrily. Hrimgerd drew his hand away at once, wary. Loki’s breathing eased somewhat.

“Laufey-King gifted this to you?” Hrimgerd asked. A wicked grin pulled at his mouth. “ _Kjaftaethi._ This is Asgardian.”

“You assume it was Laufey who gave it to me?” Loki said coolly. “Did I say his name? No, I said ‘my sire’; I didn’t say which. It was given to me by Odin Allfather.”

The jötunn grabbed Loki’s wrist, eyes livid, saliva flying from his mouth. “You wear this with pride? You are an _insult_ to the jötnar!” he spat. “Thrymr and his mistress were right: there is _nothing_ of worth in you.”

Bellows of approval rent the air. Loki shook with rage.

“Look at the boy,” Fala crooned. “Perhaps, my lord, you should teach him what it truly means to us when he declares his heart still lies with Asgard. Tell him what it means to go against real power. Thrymr-Jarl won’t mind if we hurt them too much, will he?” Her eyes were fixed on the dampener.

Hrimgerd scratched his neck. “He won’t.”

“I bet he’s to be tortured privately,” Fala continued. She was working herself up. “We won’t be able to do anything more. Now’s the time to act! Let me take his hand, Hrimgerd-Lord. He won’t be needing it.”

“No.” Hrimgerd strode forward, and held Loki’s wrist tightly. “We want you at least a little presentable,” he muttered.

The mage muttered under his breath, and Loki shrieked in pain as the dampener flared white-hot. He struggled and howled as the mage worked to remove it, muttering spells under his breath. The metal was already brittle from Fala’s ice, and with the fire now heating it rapidly, it would just be a matter of time before it broke, Loki fervently hoped. The flames were like burning magnesium, sun bright, and Loki screwed his eyes shut in an effort to block the light, and the pain, out. He couldn’t help but scream. It was another half minute of agony before Hrimgerd tore the dampener, hissing and smoking, from his wrist.

At once, the tight clamp in his chest was gone. Loki gasped for breath, revelling in the renewed presence of his magic as it burst forth into his veins like water from a broken dam. It gathered in his fists, and the ice holding his hand prisoner was shattered by a blast of magical energy.

It was so sudden an attack the mage was thrown away, unable to summon a defence of magic or weapons. Loki stood fluidly after smashing the rest of the ice keeping him down, hands burning with emerald fire. He gave a wolf’s grin. “Thank you for removing that bond of mine,” he called to Hrimgerd. “Norns, you are stupid to have fallen for that. It really was quite hindering.”

Ice leapt to his hands, forming into two thin stiletto blades. He brought them around on the six jötnar charging at him, swallowing Hrimgerd in their midst as the mage scrambled upright, turned, and fled out the door. Loki stabbed one under the jaw at once, throwing the body aside. The second blade caught the strike a she-jötunn aimed at him, her arm coated with ice to the elbow. Loki punched her in the side of the head with his other hand, swinging his body around as he threw the she-jötunn off him. Teeth went flying. Loki smacked his elbow into Aurnir’s face, and the jötunn stumbled back, falling against the wall next to Angrboða. She wriggled one of her feet free from under her and kicked him hard between the legs. He went down with a squeal of pain.

Loki whirled around, aimed at Angrboða’s bonds, and broke them with a word.

The ice cracked, and Angrboða wrenched her hands and legs free. She tore the ice from her mouth, gasping for breath before charging into the fray. Icy spikes bloomed all over her back as she rammed her shoulder in Fala, and the two of them tumbled away, fighting and snarling like wolves. It was quick work for Angrboða, by far the more skilled of the two — she opened Fala’s throat with a well-placed swipe. Angrboða didn’t wait for the bastard she-jötunn to die before hooking her claws into the meat of another’s shoulders, throwing him away as he sneaked up behind Loki.

Loki had killed the youngest whilst Angrboða had dealt with Fala. Loki advanced on the she-jötunn he had punched in the head. She lay dazed against the wall, and he stabbed her several times in the gut before leaving her to bleed out. It was easy to kill them; it allowed him to pour his hatred out and onto the enemy in his heart. Detachment, perhaps, but the truth of the matter was he felt something which could have been described as glee as the jötnar fell beneath his wrath. That the promised slaughter was the key to exercising his frustrations.

One jötunn was left, Aurnir, and Loki surged forward as the jötunn used the wall to help himself back to his feet. Both blades went through his left shoulder. He screamed as Loki extended the ice, pinning him to the wall. Loki flexed his fingers, his teeth bared in a snarl, and his hand jumped to the jötunn’s throat.

“My prince, please,” Aurnir choked. “Mercy.”

Loki cocked his head to the side, squeezing the jötunn’s throat none too gently. “It’s amusing how you ask for such a thing when not two minutes ago you were plotting giving me to an enemy. Why should I grant you such a thing? Tell me!” Spittle flew into the jötunn’s face, and Loki twisted one of the blades in his shoulder. The jötunn howled. Blood dribbled onto the stone beneath their feet.

“Ransom me!” Aurnir gasped.

“What, a bastard like you?” Loki said, and his voice was almost a croon. “And why would your company have any use for you when they can get bastards aplenty? You see the blades in your shoulder, yes? They’ve gone through a very important muscle area that would take an incredibly rich knowledge of anatomy to heal, knowledge I think your mage is rather lacking in. It is no small matter—” he twisted a knife for emphasis, and the jötunn roared, “—and a lot of damage has been inflicted upon your shoulder. If I were to take them out and time were to heal it, your arm would never be the same. Provided you didn’t bleed to death first. Now if I were the leader of such a rag-tag group of individuals like yourselves, I would take one look at you and see you as damaged … _disposable._ And disposable things are not well ransomed, wouldn’t you agree?”

With that, he pressed his palm flat against the Aurnir’s temple and shot a spike of ice straight through the skull. The jötunn slumped at once, and Loki broke the ice with a quick rotation of his wrist.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Angrboða grunted.

“There might be more of them, we know there’s at least one left,” Loki said, breaking the ice still stuck in the corpse. His gaze darted to the door where Hrimgerd had run. He spat on the ground. “Coward.”

Angrboða laughed, and he looked at her, head still tilted to the side.

She shrugged. “Spoken like a true son of Laufey.”

“Don’t test my patience,” Loki snapped. “It’s frayed.”

Angrboða paid him little heed, looking to see if anything could be scavenged from the bodies. Loki turned his attention to his blackened wrist after healing his dislocated fingers; they stopped throbbing at once. Hrimgerd hadn’t been gentle removing the dampener, and he clicked his tongue in irritation. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the dull throb of the burn echoed with his heartbeat. Taking a thread of his magic, he crooked the rune _Sol_ between his fingers and murmured a spell of healing. The skin started to flow over the burns, and soon, nothing was left of the injuries. What he did find morbidly interesting though was the healing of the heritage lines. The skin healed smoothly, but it was a few more seconds before the arrowhead patterns came back to his flesh. It was as if something had burrowed under his skin.

“Have you never seen that before?” Angrboða said, straightening up and looking at Loki as he pressed at the newly reformed lines.

“What is it?” Loki asked.

“The ice is alive,” was the only answer she gave. “Come on.” She jabbed at the ice trapping the káshtar. Because the jötnar who had formed the barrier were dead, the ice cracked easily under Angrboða’s blow. Shattered ice rained at their feet, and the káshtar slinked out, scenting the blood lacing the air that left its own metallic tang in Loki’s nose. Loki’s came out limping. Loki sighed, crossed to it, and looked to the shoulder. The wound was sticky with blood. When he healed the beast, the animal shuddered in relief.

Angrboða nodded appreciatively, stuffing their things back into their rummaged through packs. “Well then, we’re not going to be getting much sleep with those _oskilgetinn_ _ar_ around. Let’s play Ruler of the Fort.”

* * *

#

* * *

There would be no end to this situation that would turn out with both sides of the conflict leaving the other in peace — they had found at least a dozen sets of tracks outside which confirmed there were more jötnar lurking in the ruins. The Þrymheimr loyals wouldn’t let them go, and neither party would leave until the other had been eliminated. But Loki and Angrboða had a disadvantage: the Þrymheimr faction knew their numbers, their supplies, and their location, and information about them in turn was unknown to Loki and Angrboða. As a precaution, they moved their encampment to one of the many courtyards spread throughout the city, one that was ringed on all sides by still standing walls. They had found a cellar, and they stored their packs inside, along with the káshtar.

Loki had acknowledged he also needed a better weapon, so he had constructed one as carefully as he could with his ice. After maybe half an hour of adjustment and fiddling, he held something that was mainly Æsir in design. It was gently curved, as long as he was tall, and fitted with three wickedly arched blades onto one end. The butt was wide and kept a lot of the balance; it was also good for ramming.

“Pretty,” Angrboða said as he stood up and passed it from hand to hand, “but does it work?”

“I used to train with sceptres and spears like these,” Loki replied.

Shifting to his Æsir skin was not something that would remotely help him at this time, either. He had a height advantage in this form he was not willing to trade, not to mention his greater physical strength and the power he had over the ice. Unlike him though, Angrboða had armour. None of the Þrymheimr loyal they had killed had been wearing armour, so Loki was exposed, but his skill with weapons was greater than hers, so it somewhat evened them out. Angrboða had shown him how to make the icy spikes on his shoulders, but advised him to only create them in the heat of battle — “They’re uncomfortable to wear all the time; believe me.”

Loki joined Angrboða in the centre of the courtyard when he was ready, running a finger along the edge of the sceptre’s largest blade.

“I’ve scouted for the footprints,” Angrboða said, crouching down and drawing a circle in the snow. “We’re here—” she pointed to a spot a little to the left of the centre, “—and the tracks they left head north. The city’s divided into six equal sectors.” She then drew three lines that intersected in the middle, splitting the circle like the parts of an orange. “They’ll be watching the main roads going to the north, and I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s in the tower to look out for anything dangerous. Which is why you should shift into a valravn or something like.”

“I can shift into animals?” Loki asked, so surprised that he didn’t have time to hold back the words.

The look of pity once again crossed Angrboða’s face, but it was fleeting. “Alright, then. Leave that idea.”

But then an idea popped into Loki’s head. “You need eyes up high?” he asked.

Angrboða nodded. “It would be ideal—”

“I can do it,” Loki said.

“How? You can’t shift—”

“I don’t need wings.” He turned back to the cellar, a grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “The Æsir have their own ways of great achieving heights. What I’m thinking of comes in the form of seven-league boots.”

* * *

#

* * *

Running up vertical surfaces was always a strange experience to Loki, no matter how often he did it. He was careful to keep his steps silent as he ascended the tower, planning to enter from the top and work his way down for the most effective tactic to surprise. But it was also a blessed relief to be in his Æsir skin. He welcomed the bite of the cold as he reached the roof and jumped down, light as a cat, through a hole. He remained crouched on the floor for a few seconds, listening for any sign of movement, before he stripped his clothes and changed back to his jötunn skin. Once he had stuffed everything away and donned his _kjilt_ , he took up the sceptre and headed towards the door.

After placing silencing charms on the hinges, he tried to open the door. It was jammed, and Loki glowered. Sending a spark of witchfire into the cracks between the door and the frame to melt any ice, he waited for a few seconds before he tried again. It swung open without a sound, and Loki padded forward, feeling boxed in by the dark stone on either side as he crept down the flight of stairs. Another door blocked his path, but this one was sightly open. He pressed his eye to the crack, baring his teeth slightly. Angrboða had been correct — someone was there, watching the north of the city out of a window. The jötunn’s back was facing him, and Loki saw an irreplaceable opportunity to strike. Checking around the rest of the room to make sure it was deserted, he opened the door.

A roar punctuated the air, and Loki swung the sceptre around as someone dropped from the ceiling. From the feathers that still littered the she-jötunn’s skin, Loki thought that she too must have been a shifter. He jumped back, and when she straightened up, he lunged forward and cracked the spear into her chest. She was sent sprawling away. By then the jötunn by the window had surged to his feet, snarling as the she-jötunn got back to her own and circled Loki, her teeth elongating. Loki bore his own teeth.

She flew at him, and Loki sidestepped her clumsy strike and stabbed her in the stomach. The other roared and charged at him, but Loki was ready. He ducked, spinning himself around on his knees as the jötunn swiped for him. He then summoned one of his daggers from the negative space and threw it into the back of the jötunn’s neck. He went down with a bellow as Loki straightened up, walking forward and wrenching it from the creature’s flesh.

A shuffle of movement from the floor brought his attention back to the she-jötunn. She was trying to pull herself away into shadow, but Loki went after her, pushing his foot into the small of her back. He forked another rune between his fingers, _Nauðr_ this time, to restrain her magic for a short period.

“You kill me,” she whispered, “and you have killed the last shifter of a line that goes back fifty millennia.”

“Why should I care?” Loki asked. “You’re monsters.”

“From my perspective,” she said, grimacing as his weight shifted a little, “you’re the monster.”

“You tried to kill me,” Loki said.

“If … if one of the Æsir had been raised a jötunn and was brought back … to Asgard and proclaimed a prince,” she hissed, “wouldn’t you too be scared of what destruction he could bring?”

If she was trying to invoke some sort of pity in him, it didn’t work. He knew who he was, and he knew what she, and her race, were. It was simple in the end. Loki stabbed her in the back, and she slumped at once. He looked at her body through narrow eyes, before marching to the next door, going down the stairs to join Angrboða.

* * *

#

* * *

Once the problem of the tower had been sorted, Loki and Angrboða stormed north. And so, ten minutes later, two more jötnar lay dead at their feet, watchers stationed on the main northern road. Angrboða had gained a vicious cut above her heart in the sudden attack, but otherwise, neither of them were hurt.

“Save your magic,” she told him as his fingertips ignited with green light. “We may need it for Hrimgerd.”

Loki shrugged.

“You know,” Angrboða continued casually as they ducked beneath an archway, “I like you better in the heat of battle; you’re so much more polite.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Loki replied. But he didn’t really believe himself, and neither, he thought, did she. Angrboða was earning his respect, and he was earning hers. Loki had to admit Angrboða’s formidableness had not been all talk; she was amazingly strong and skilled. Perhaps he could see her as the friend she had approached him as at the celebrations.

_All we needed was a life or death situation to bring it about._

The camp they came across was in the belly of one of the biggest buildings in the city, and one that was evidently hastily evacuated. The single guard left behind was quickly slaughtered. The camp was situated atop a slight hill, ringed by stone and archways leading to upper levels; many had collapsed and left them inaccessible. Rubbish was strewn about the place — freshly chewed fish bones, scraps of hide, tuffs of feathers—

“Don’t step in that,” Angrboða warned.

Loki looked down, frowning at a collection of ice shavings on the ground. There wasn’t anything odd he could see about it, but he did as she told him and stepped over it; he’d sort that mystery out later.

Loki crouched, examining the tracks left by the campers. Looking around, he did a silent assessment of the site. “Looks like there were about a dozen jötnar here,” he said finally, straightening up and tapping the sceptre against his calf. “We’ve so far killed elev—”

A muffled sob broke the still air, and the both of them whipped around, Loki levelling the sceptre at the source and Angrboða’s shoulders bristling with spikes. He stalked forward, nostrils flaring as he looked for who had emitted the noise. Snow had hastily been piled over a crack in the floor, and he brushed it away. A barrier of ice greeted him, stretched across a gap that was wide enough for four or five jötnar to comfortably sit within. Loki banged the sceptre on the ice, and he heard a choke come from underneath. Yes, there was at least one jötunn down there. He raised his hand, and broke the ice was a blast of magic.

A screech came from within as Loki cleared the ice away and jabbed down—

—and pulled back as three pairs of huge eyes greeted him. A girl snarled up at him, little teeth bared and shoulders tense. She was the oldest of the bunch, but what made him pause was the sudden stab of pity that gripped his heart, something that the shifter she-jötunn from earlier hadn’t been able to bring about. He looked at her, ready to kill at the slightest provocation, and all he saw was Helblindi; she couldn’t have been any older than him. Perhaps that was the reason for his hesitation. Behind her were two boys, young and frightened, lineless. Bastards, all of them.

He looked at them evenly.

“Loki,” Angrboða said.

“Children,” he murmured. “Three of them.”

She walked over briskly, swearing under her breath when she saw them.

“Could you do it?”

Loki’s head snapped around, and he snarled. Hrimgerd stood beneath an archway, white fire cupped in one hand, and in the other, he held a long knife of ice. He looked coolly at Loki who padded forward, his gaze unblinking and fixed on Hrimgerd.

“Would it not be kinder to kill them?” Angrboða said. “They would never be accepted; their lack of heritage lines would forever part them.”

Loki growled low in his throat — a warning. “Ice the hole back over,” he said to Angrboða eventually. “We’ll sort this out later, once _he’s_ taken care of.”

Angrboða hesitated, but did as he asked. Angry cries broke through the air as the hole was sealed back up; fists hammered onto the underside of the ice, but didn’t break through it.

Loki switched the sceptre to his left hand. “Now,” he called, “die quickly and quietly, and everything will be easier for all of us.”

Hrimgerd laughed. “You possess your sire’s arrogance. Perhaps you are his blood.”

Loki charged, swinging the sceptre at Hrimgerd’s head, but the jötunn caught it on his own weapon. Loki brought the other end around, cracking the butt into Hrimgerd’s knee. Before Loki could pull it away, Hrimgerd caught it, and the fire in his hand shattered the end. Loki’s natural magic snapped, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling; it was like he had missed a step going down stairs. He backed away, fixing the weapon as best he could, trying to ignore the feeling of _wrongness_ that leeched at his heart. He paced a circle, and Angrboða joined him in the opposite direction.

Hrimgerd held the fire towards Angrboða, and his weapon towards Loki. “You highborn bastards,” he spat, “thinking you can do anything you please. You’ve slaughtered my companions, you’re plotting to kill their children, and for what? So you can claim this city for yourself? The city that is big enough for four thousand?”

“You act in Þrymheimr’s name,” Angrboða said. “You were planning to sell and kill us.” She pounced on Hrimgerd as Loki blasted Hrimgerd with a punch of magic. Hrimgerd turned his attention on him, pulling up a barrier … turning his back on Angrboða. She hit him hard at the base of his skull. Hrimgerd crumpled.

Angrboða went to him, crouching down to examine whether the blow had killed — unconsciousness was never certain when delivered with blunt trauma to the head. But her blow hadn’t killed him, and so she straightened up, pulling her hair away from her face with irritation. “You take him,” she said to Loki, “and I’ll get the children.”

Hrimgerd groaned at her feet, coming back around. Loki clicked his tongue and shot him with a spell. Sleep came over Hrimgerd, and he fell still once again. “Fine,” Loki said.

He didn’t like it, but he grit his teeth all the same and pulled Hrimgerd onto his shoulders. The jötunn was heavy, and Loki grunted as he adjusted him on his back. Did Angrboða want him to stand to trial? Or was it to ascertain the report to come from this? Although Loki knew how Jötunheimr dealt with murder, he didn’t know how it dealt with manslaughter. Or even to affirm it hadn’t been Loki slaughtering jötnar without provocation like the Æsir would. Fárbauti’s warning after his _hólmganga_ rung through his head then:

_“It is so important that you separate yourself from Asgard in every way possible. Loki, you must think about your actions. Your position is delicate, and if you do not act as if it is, you are going to kill us all.”_

Loki grit his teeth.

“Let me go! Let me go, you highborn!”

Angrboða was pulling the children along behind her, and the girl was fighting her wildly, her eyes blazing with hate.

“Quiet now, or I’ll knock you upside the head too,” Angrboða threatened. Her skin crawled with frost. The girl quietened at once, but her expression was still seething. “Now, are there any more people lurking around?”

The girl shook her head vehemently.

“Promise?”

“Die,” she hissed.

Angrboða didn’t response to that. She marched off, a long dagger in hand with Loki bringing up the rear. The children hindered their progress. One of the boys tried to dart away near the tower, but Angrboða caught him around the middle, hoisting him onto her shoulder as he kicked and screamed. Loki ignored the noise. Once they reached the cellar, they piled inside and slammed the door shut. The káshtar were pacing, clearly on edge, but as soon as the beasts saw them, they visibly relaxed, the short hair at the bases of their manes flattening.

The cellar was dark and damp, and there was, from the corner, the persistent sound of dripping water. Both Loki and Angrboða were too exhausted to fix it now.

The children were eyeing the káshtar warily, and one of the boys had frozen to the spot, almost trembling with fear. Loki stopped, huffing for breath, and studying the three of them. Upon closer inspection, the girl was slightly older than Helblindi, her face finely shaped with a narrow nose and lips. Her hair was a bird’s nest at the base of her neck, so tangled Loki thought only shears could fix it. The two boys were so close together in age he suspected them to be twins. They stayed close to each other, and looked enough like the girl they had to be related.

Loki dumped Hrimgerd in the corner of the room, lifted his hands above his head to freeze them to the wall. With a thin piece of ice, he cut into the jötunn’s exposed arms magical locking sigils which would prevent him from casting spells, much like Loki had been hindered with earlier that night. Once he was finished, he slumped against the opposite wall, exhausted. He’d gotten maybe an hour or two of sleep in the last two days, and he was running on the barest amounts of energy.

“Do you have any food?” one of the boys whispered to Angrboða. “We’re hungry.”

Loki pulled one of the packs over to him, rummaging inside and taking out half a hunk of Æsir-ian bread. He tossed to the children across the floor. The girl picked it up suspiciously, sniffing it, but she was hungry enough to eat it without much complaint. The boys crowded around her for some, picking at it and chewing it stonily.

“So what now?” Loki asked when Angrboða slid down to sit next to him, watching the bastard children warily.

“I’m as lost as you are when it comes to the children. My head says we should kill them, but my heart can’t do it. They’re bastards, and the realm won’t be kind to them because of it.”

“What’s the fuss about them being such?” Loki said. “There are bastards aplenty in Asgard … the Æsir don’t go out of their ways to kill them.”

“They have no heritage lines because their parents were either bastards themselves and had no lines to give, or one party did not want the child,” Angrboða said. “You’ve no doubt noticed by now your dam’s lines don’t match yours, and that is because Laufey is the stronger of the couple. It is the strongest that give their lines to the child, regardless of gender. Heritage lines are given nine nights after being born, and the same is for your horns. They’re not passed on through biological means, but they were gifted to you when you received your lines. It’s a spell that shapes the bone later in life, and if it not performed quickly, it cannot be performed at all. This is why your dam does not have them — it’s too late for that.

“Bastards are not conceived in love, not when one of the parents refuses to acknowledge the child that is born. Without this acknowledgement, the heritage lines cannot be passed on by either party, and the child born will never have them. Family is important in this world, and the lack of lines speaks for itself — somewhere in that family, a birth was an accident, and the result is scorned. That is why you need not worry about bastard children being born to you. Most women will supress their fertility until you are willing to sire a child — they will be faced with ridicule, and they will never be able to take your name and your position.”

It made Loki feel somewhat better about … _kyn_ — the heat or whatever Angrboða had called it — but the thing in whole still repulsed him.

“They’re from Þrymheimr,” Loki said, scratching his nose. “Who’s Thrymr? Fárbauti mentioned him at the celebrations.”

Angrboða sighed. “He’s a _jarl_ , popular in the west beyond the Skógarmaðrfit. As for the celebrations, he was quite the topic of conversation when he refused Laufey-King’s invitation to come. He argued that you were Æsir, and it would be best for the realm to kill you before anyone knew of your survival. Laufey-King wouldn’t hear of it.”

She was looking at him in such a way Loki flinched back. _They care for you_ , were the unspoken words. It wasn’t a happy thought to him.

“Spies in the Þrymheimr province are reporting back that many think as Thrymr does regarding you,” Angrboða said. “Hrimgerd obviously is one of those who is fanatically loyal to Thrymr and supports him at every turn. Now if we can get him to confess to this attack when we go back to Útgarðar-Greater, then Laufey-King will be able to use him as an example as to what happens to those who take the more practical approach of Thrymr’s thoughts. I don’t think Hrimgerd and his company were acting on orders. Thrymr’s not stupid enough to send a kidnapping party after you.”

The news didn’t bother Loki as much as it should have. In a way, he welcomed it; at least someone had their head on straight when it came to him. But no matter what the bias voice in his mind said, the voice that belonged to Loki Odinson, he didn’t want to die in a hostile realm — he was determined still to see it as nothing but hostile.

“We’ll worry about that later,” Loki said slowly. “Angrboða—”

“Ange.”

Loki frowned. “What?”

“My family calls me Ange,” she said, shrugging, “and my friends. I hope you can accept me as a friend.”

“Do you see me as such?”

“Let’s just say you’re growing on me.”

Loki’s lips twitched in a smile.

“Sleep. I’ll watch these four and make sure they don’t do anything too drastic.”

Loki settled down soon after, having healed his and Angrboða’s hurts, his back to the room, and his head resting on the furs. _Well, look at this now_ , he thought. _Who would have guessed._


	15. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 29-11-2015**

****1331 A.D.** **

“Why do I have to be the frost giant?”

“Because I’m the one who’s going to be king one day, not you. I need to practice killing frost giants, so I’m going to practice on you. Besides, frost giants are ugly, and you’re ugly and I’m not, therefore I can’t be the frost giant.”

“But they’re stupid, and you’re stupid. Make Sif be the frost giant.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got to save her. The frost giants kidnapped her.”

Sif, a runaway from her embroidery lesson, glared at Thor who was glaring at Loki. “I’m not going to be rescued by you!”

“I’m not going to be a frost giant!”

“You’re going to do what I say because I’m the oldest, and I’m a prince,” Thor said, finality ringing in his tone.

“I’m a prince too!” Loki whined.

“You’re the youngest prince, and because I’m the eldest prince, you have to do what I say.”

Loki crossed his arms, anger lining his little face. “Make one of those idiots you call friends be the frost giant. Then we can rescue Sif together, because that’s what we’ll be doing one day.”

“Hogun’s too quiet, Volstagg’s too old, and Fandral’s someplace else,” Thor said, waving away Loki’s complaints. “Now kidnap Sif, that’s an order.”

Loki looked at Thor dubiously, then grabbed Sif’s arm and tore across the garden with her. Thor ran after them, roaring a challenge. “Get back here so I can smash you, frost giant!”

“No, because you’re an idiot!”

“Rah!”

Loki pulled Sif around a corner and hid her in the shadows as Thor tore past them. They stayed quiet for a moment. “You can escape on your own,” Loki muttered. “You can kill me as well, so then Thor can’t kill me.”

“Why?” Sif asked, confused.

“Because his plan will be ruined, and then you can prove you’re as fierce as a Valkyrie.”

Sif grinned and took Loki by the front of his shirt. She pulled a small sheathed knife — something more suited to cutting thread than killing monsters — from her satchel and drove it under Loki’s armpit. “Away, beast!” she cried. “You won’t kidnap me anymore!”

“Help, I’m dying!” Loki groaned. “Blood’s going everywhere! Vision’s fading, limbs weakening! You are truly talented, fair maiden of Asgard! Mercy!”

“No mercy for you, frost giant!” She knelt on his chest and tapped the knife against his collarbone. “Die, die, die!”

“Sif! I’m the one supposed to kill the frost giant.” Thor had doubled-back when he realised Loki and Sif had evaded him. He stood with his arms crossed, glaring at the two of them. “You’re not playing fair.”

“You ran off in the wrong direction, so I had to help myself since you weren’t going to rescue me,” pouted Sif.

“But you’re a girl, so I’m supposed to rescue you.”

“Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I can’t fight,” Sif argued. “The frost giant died either way, so you should be singing songs of my victory!”

Thor whirled to Loki when he snickered as he got to his feet. “That was your idea, wasn’t it?” he accused.

“Of course it wasn’t. Why would I want a girl to kill me?” Loki sneered.

Hurt, and angry that his plan had been spoiled, Thor stalked away, shouting, “Mother! Loki and Sif aren’t playing fair!”

Loki rolled his eyes. “Stupid Thor. You killed me fairly.”

Sif nodded. “You know, no one will believe me unless I cut off your head and bring it back to show the other warriors.”

“Ah no! Don’t cut off my head!”

“Loki, what is going on?”

Loki and Sif stopped in their playing as Thor came back with Frigga, his face a storm cloud.

“Thor made me be a stupid frost giant so he could kill me,” Loki said, “and I said I wouldn’t do it, but he forced me to so he can fill his already oversized head even more about how great he is. Then he made me kidnap Sif so he could rescue her. But then Sif killed me and Thor got angry because he was supposed to kill me.”

Frigga’s face was a mask as Loki told her the story, and she looked disapprovingly at both her sons. “My lady Sif, I’m sure your mother is looking for you. Why don’t you go to her?”

“Because she’s making me embroider,” Sif grumbled. “I want to fight.”

“One day, Lady Sif, but not today. I’m sure your mother is very worried.”

Sif looked like she wanted to protest, but she gave a stiff curtsy and scrambled off, skirts hiked around her knees.

“Boys,” Frigga said, kneeling down on the grass next to them and looking at them both, “if these games are going to cause you problems, I will forbid you from playing them, am I clear?”

“I don’t want to be a frost giant,” Loki said sourly. “They’re monsters.”

Frigga pushed Loki’s hair away from his face and gave him a smile. “Loki, they are not monsters, and I do not want you to ever think so again. They are a defeated peoples, nothing more. But did you know that some frost giants are very smart? So perhaps, if you choose to play this game again, you can be a smart frost giant.”

“But Thor will kill me, and I want to be the one to hunt down the frost giants for a change,” Loki said, annoyed.

“But I’m going to be the king, so therefore I have to be the one to kill the frost giants,” Thor said with an air of supremacy.

“Boys, boys,” chided Frigga. “Thor, next time you are to play, you will be the frost giant, and Loki will be the one to kill you.”

“But—”

“Yes! Thor, Mother said you’re going to be the frost giant next time.”

“I … fine. But one time only.”

Frigga smiled, and stood up. “I’m glad that is settled then. Off you go, before Master Bjorn comes to get you for your afternoon lessons.”

_As both of the boys ran off, Frigga’s smile faltered, and she put a hand to her mouth, fighting against the tears threatening to spill from her eyes._


	16. Chapter Thirteen - The Coldest of Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 29-11-2015**

“It is Loki-Prince! Loki-Prince and Lady Vörnissdóttir have returned!”

The shouted news of their return beat them back to Útgarðar, and by the time they rode through the castle’s barbican, there was an entourage to meet them in the courtyard. Loki was pleased to note none of his suitors were amongst their numbers. At least that was one small mercy he would be indulged this night.

“Your Highness. My lady,” an official said, bowing low as Loki tossed the reins of the káshta to an awaiting stable hand. “It is good to see you have returned safely.”

“Would you have any reason to believe we would not?” Loki asked, glaring at the jötunn flatly. He didn’t want to deal with these silly formalities now. What he desperately wanted was to be left alone, to have the chance to shift his skin, and soak in a hot bath with no need to worry about anything that was happening elsewhere. He also wanted to drink himself into a blind stupor, but that would have to wait for some time.

_Mates. Heats. Norns, why? I thought it was only females that did that._

“Of course not,” the official said smoothly. His eyes flicked to the immobile form of Hrimgerd slung across the káshta’s back. He was bruised, and the runes on his arms seeped a clear fluid — Loki hadn’t seen much point to ward off any potential infection. A frown pinched at the official’s expression. “If I may enquire, Highness, who is that?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Angrboða said, sliding down her káshta. Eyes were drawn from Hrimgerd to the three bastard children who had been sitting in front of Angrboða; they gaped at the castle, eyes wide.

“Have you brought anyone else back with you, Your Highness?” the official asked in a clipped manner.

“They were … incapacitated,” Loki said snidely.

Angrboða laughed, and the official managed to keep his face impassive. “Laufey-King and Fárbauti-Queen-Consort await you inside.”

Loki glowered. They had spent two nights in the cellar in Þengraðr to make sure everyone had fully recovered. During it, Loki had been thinking desperately about what to do about the upcoming confrontation with Laufey and Fárbauti upon their return. Dread would have been the best way to describe his feelings. Dread for the inevitable question of _why had he left_ that would arise.

The children were taken from the káshta’s shoulders by three guards, and the girl began to writhe. “Let me go!” she cried. “Get off!”

“Once our business has been finished, escort them to the servants’ barracks,” Angrboða said. “Make sure they are fed and given sleeping arrangements.”

“We should kill them; they’re just more mouths to feed come winter,” grunted the guard holding the girl.

Angrboða looked around at the city and sky, eyebrow cocked. “I was under the impression it was still summer.”

“By killing them now, it makes the situation far simpler.” A knife of ice formed in his hand at the words. The girl began to fight harder, and the guard tucked the knife under her jaw, arm cocked and ready to slit her throat. She stilled.

“Hrym!” one of the boys cried.

“You would kill them,” Loki said flatly. “Do you think we would have gone to the effort to drag them back here just to have them die by your hand? Why should we when we are perfectly capable of doing such a thing ourselves? Whilst I have not yet decided what should be done with them, they will be fed and sheltered, am I clear?”

“A … As my prince wishes.” The knife was taken away from Hrym’s throat, and the ice shattered. Hrym looked at Loki with something akin to surprise, her eyes wide, and her lips slightly parted.

Loki looked to Hrimgerd, and said, “Bring him in; there’re some things we need to clear first.”

Two of the guards hoisted Hrimegrd’s immobile form off the káshta. Loki stalked to him and put his thumb on the jötunn’s forehead. A glow sunk into his skin, and the jötunn stirred. The guards gripped him tightly by the upper arms as Hrimgerd awoke. “Take your hands from me!”

Loki’s laugh was harsh. “And what would you do? Flee? You wouldn’t get five paces. Why don’t we make this easy for everyone, hmm?”

Hrimgerd stilled at once, his lip still curled back in warning.

The official nodded, and then, turning to Loki, he said, “Your Highness, Laufey-King and Fárbauti-Queen-Consort have been awaiting your return. They will see you now.”

“I—” Loki started to protest, but there was a stir of movement coming from between the jötnar as someone pushed their way through the crowd.

Helblindi burst forth from the throng suddenly, panting lightly, and a loose grin curling around his mouth. “Loki! You’re back.” He flung his arms around Loki’s middle. “I’m really happy you’re back. Dam and Sire are really angry, though.”

“Are they?”

Helblindi nodded. “They want to see you now, and I really hope they don’t kill you.” Helblindi threw a curious look to the children as he led Loki and Angrboða back to the castle, the others trailing behind them. “But I know they won’t kill you because they’re nicer than that. But you know what we should do?” Helblindi was saying. “There was a snowfall whilst you were gone, so since there’s lots of new snow, we should go to the tundra and spend the night there. There’ll be so much to play with!”

Well, that was one thing Loki was not going to do.

His back straightened considerably as they came closer to the throne room, and he refused to make eye contact with the guards standing on either side of the open doors. His eyes were instead fixed above the heads of Laufey and Fárbauti.

They sat in the thrones at the end of the room, surrounded by courtiers who were in a flurry of activity. Laufey wasn’t looking at him — his attention instead was focused on Býleistr who was muttering something to him from his position beside his sire. He seemed to stop mid-sentence as Loki strode in, and the glare he threw him rivalled the one Loki shot back. Loki’s hands curled instinctively into fists.

But with the eyes of the jötunn court upon him, Loki went to a knee and lifted his chin, exposing his throat. “Sire,” he ground out. “Dam.” The words were acrid on his tongue.

“We are glad of your safe return, my son,” Fárbauti said. “Rise.”

Loki grit his teeth as he straightened up.

Angrboða stepped forward and bowed low. “Laufey-Konungr. Fárbauti-Dróttning.”

Laufey nodded, and his gaze flicked to Hrimgerd. He’d started to struggle, and Laufey’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s this you’ve brought back?”

Angrboða glanced at Loki. He threw a look to Hrimgerd, and then, resuming his scrutiny of the wall, said curtly, “Two nights ago in the ruins of Þengraðr, we were attacked by this scum’s band of bastards.”

There was a sharp bristling around the room, and angry mutters sprung up. The guards holding Hrimgerd snarled, digging their claws into his arms. Hrimgerd held his head high, his pain carefully masked beneath a face of indifference.

“Loki?” Helblindi asked softly, his face paling. “Were you hurt?”

“No.” Loki looked at Hrimgerd. “Him, and these three bastard children, are the only survivors; eleven fell beneath us.”

One of the boys choked back a sob, and Loki glared at him, pitiless. What would he care if the boy’s parents were dead? They were just two more damn jötnar, and there were enough of them as it was. And he still couldn’t bring himself to understand why he hadn’t killed these children, the children who Angrboða had told him countless times would be outcasts until their last nights. The boy shrank back, and his twin held onto his shoulders.

Laufey’s face twisted into a grin of satisfaction, and, Loki was furious with the very notion of it, was that even a sliver of _pride_?

Laufey levelled his wolf’s smile at Hrimgerd. His laugh was humourless. “You dared to attack my son and his companion? Why is that? What bout of foolishness overcame you? What is your name?”

The jötunn said nothing.

Angrboða cleared her throat. “His name—”

“If I wanted you to tell me, I would have asked you, Lady Vörnissdóttir,” Laufey said, his eyes never wavering from Hrimgerd.

Angrboða bit her lip and said nothing more.

Laufey rose from his throne and descended the steps. His footfalls were heavy, and reverberated through the ice; Loki felt the tremors through his feet. The clink of the metal of Laufey’s _kjilt_ was a soft sound in the room. “Your name, þú istrumagi skreyja.” Tiny spikes of ice coated Laufey’s palms and the undersides of his fingers, and Loki watched passively as the king wrapped his hand around Hrimgerd’s throat. Hrimgerd winced as the spikes dug into his neck. Blood seeped down his skin. “And your House.”

Hrimgerd continued to say nothing.

Laufey gripped his hair in a fist and wrenched his chin up. The guards released Hrimgerd, and he gasped for breath, trembling.

“Your name … and your House.”

The calmness he addressed the situation with unnerved Loki. It became a conscious effort not to look away from the king; the passive anger was frightening.

Hrimgerd grimaced as Laufey’s grip on his throat tightened, and the amount blood flowing down his neck grew as the spikes were evidently lengthened. His lips opened, and he coughed out, “Lord Hrimgerd … Hrimgerd Mornjarson. I am of the House Morn.” A bubble of blood burst upon his lips.

“Morn,” Býleistr said suddenly. And then, he said with disgust, “You are sworn to Þrymheimr.”

As Býleistr said it, Fárbauti bristled and shifted her position on her throne. She sat straight-backed, fully alert, and poised on the edge of her seat like a hunting cat. She was nothing like the she-jötunn Loki had first met.

Laufey further narrowed his eyes. “Þrymheimr loyal,” he said dryly. He looked to Thjazi who stood at the foot of the stairs. Thjazi had stiffened, and his lip curled at Býleistr’s assessment.

 _No love between those brothers, then,_ Loki thought.

“I am,” Hrimgerd said. He seemed willing enough to talk now that his name had been revealed. His eyes too found Thjazi. “I am loyal to the rightful heir of Þrymheimr: Jarl Thrymr Alvaldason — the brother who was so skilled to defeat you in _hólmganga_ and win the province. And he and his mate have been generous to his people, and they love him for it—” Hrimgerd’s breath was cut off as, Loki assumed, the spikes were lengthened yet again.

Laufey lifted Hrimgerd above his head by the throat. Hrimgerd’s hands flew to Laufey’s arm as he struggled to fight the king off. Magic coiled around his wrists, but the runes carved into his arms trapped the white light against his skin. When Laufey stopped lifting him, Hrimgerd’s eyes were in line with the top of the king’s great silver-black horns, reflected in the half-dozen gold bands upon them.

“Do not speak to my general like that,” Laufey said, deceptively calm. “Do not make your death even longer than it already will be.”

He loosened his fingers, and Hrimgerd fell on the ground, spluttering and coughing blood as he heaved in great gulps of air. Laufey grabbed him by the hair and dragged him towards the throne. He threw him into the steps, and proceeded to walk over him to reach his seat. Hrimgerd moaned as Laufey’s heels dug into his stomach.

“Þrymheimr loyal,” Laufey said, settling himself back down, and his claws clacked on the arms of the seat as he lounged in it. “Your attack was launched upon my son because of your blind loyalty to that insurgent?”

“That poor excuse you have for a son is not welcome here!” Hrimgerd cried, struggling to lift himself up to make eye contact with Loki. “He may be jötunn born, but he’s Asgardian bred. He is the lapdog of Asgard, and he deserves the same death as those barbarians do.”

Loki bristled, eyes narrowing, shoulders tensing. Laufey snarled loudly, but it was Fárbauti who acted. She launched herself from her seat with a snarl, and was on the jötunn within the span of a heartbeat. Her claws and teeth seemed to lengthen, her height seemed to increase, her muscles bulged with a sudden bulk they hadn’t possessed a second ago. The jewellery she wore began to cut into her skin, and the seams of her clothes strained. Her claws sunk into Hrimgerd’s shoulders and, with little effort, she lifted him on them alone. Her skin was rough with icy spikes, and the sudden ferocity had many stepping back.

But Loki could only stare at her, his muscles loosening.

Fárbauti had _shifted her shape_.

“My son is the second prince of Jötunheimr,” Fárbauti snarled, “and he will _never_ be unwelcome here. He is a part of this realm, and neither we, nor Jötunheimr Herself, will turn him away.”

“The famous Cruel-Striker, bane of so many of Asgard,” Hrimgerd laughed. “Your unwelcome kindness will be the end of him. Look how he blanches; look at how he hates the jötnar.” Hrimgerd’s mouth twisted into a bloody smile at Fárbauti’s expression. “You should have heard him boasting of Asgard and his precious Allfather. That canker must be cut from Jötunheimr for Her own good! Even your first prince thinks so.”

Býleistr laughed. “And why would you think that?”

But Hrimgerd had spoken the truth. So what was Býleistr playing at? Politics — it must have been, pure and simple politics. If he agreed with Hrimgerd, he gave power to the enemies of the throne, and that was the last thing any of them needed. At least, that was what Loki told himself.

Býleistr didn’t look at him. Hrimgerd’s expression was pained, but even his confusion showed through.

“I have called him a brother,” Býleistr said. “Surely you know that?”

“He drugged you at the feast,” Hrimgerd countered. “He forced you to acknowledge yourself as his brother. I have heard many accounts of it.”

“Are you even hearing your contradictions? You say he has not want of his family here, and then you accuse him of making me call him ‘Brother’. I can assure you that he forced me to say nothing of the sort,” Býleistr continued. His back was stiff, and his fingers strayed to his shoulder. “Surely as well, you have not failed to notice the horns upon his brow. They came to him, and if he were not welcomed by Jötunheimr, the magic would never have settled into his bones. That is proof enough of his enduring connection to Her.”

When all eyes turned to him, Loki nodded. He needed to navigate these waters efficiently, and if it meant acknowledging his jötunn nature to do so, then so be it. If it meant his survival, he could find a way to live with that. He had to, for his own sanity at least.

“What I saw in Þengraðr told me otherwise,” Hrimgerd coughed. “The bracelet he wore was of Asgardian origin, and if he rejects them, he would not have defended them to the extent he did. You should be thanking me! I removed it!”

“Bracelet?”

The question was echoed in every corner of the room, and Loki had to fight to keep from twitching with irritation or surprise. Of course the stupid dampener was brought up. He shouldn’t have listened to Angrboða. He should have killed Hrimgerd at Þengraðr and let him rot with his precious bastards.

Action was needed, quickly. “Perhaps you are indeed blind,” Loki said. He held his unblemished wrists up to the light. “You say we should be thanking you for getting an Asgardian bracelet off of me, and, from the way you have worded it, I’d think it would require force, and injuries. I see no evidence of any sort of thing. Not convinced? Well then. Angrboða-Lady, you are an ally trusted by many. Was I wearing such a thing when I was here before? I distinctly remember my _Asgardian_ things being destroyed on the orders of Laufey-King.”

“I don’t recall any bracelet,” Angrboða said smoothly.

Hrimgerd’s lip curled. “But this is a court of law, and I may give evidence from my experience. My experience was taking an Asgardian piece of jewellery from you. But no one seems to remember you in possession of it,” he hissed. “Stories have spread far and wide of what happened on the night you returned. Your Asgardian things were destroyed, and yet no one has seen you wear anything Asgardian since. I think there is a reason for such, so then let me string some theories together.”

Hrimgerd spoke quickly, rapidly, before anyone could silence him. “Three káshtar mounts were found devoid of their riders. A search party was sent out, and they found evidence of campsites, of _fire_.”

 _Thor, you_ fool, Loki cursed.

“A shifter was dispatched to gather more news, and do you know what she reported back? She reported that there were Æsir invading Jötunheimr. And your prince ran to them, like a _dýr_ back to his master.”

The room burst with noise. Laufey sat up straight at once, and his eyes burnt holes into Loki; it took everything in him not to quail under his look. Fárbauti turned to him as well, and dropped Hrimgerd to the floor. She returned to her normal size and, unlike Laufey, she didn’t look angry. Her face was a mask.

“Children.” Her voice echoed throughout the room, and the noise died at once. She crouched in front of Hrym and said, very firmly, “Tell me the truth, here and now: was my son, your prince, wearing such a thing as this traitor claims?”

Hrym said nothing, but both of the boys shook their heads.

“I swear it,” one whispered. “He wasn’t. I swear it on Oblivion he wasn’t.”

“And so this idiot’s words mean nothing,” Loki said, cutting across whatever Fárbauti was going to say next. “He can lie about such things, and he has no proof to further his claim. Surely, he can lie about other such things as well, and I can assure you he has fabricated this story. The far side of the Skógarmaðrfit? The last I heard that was the province of Þrymheimr, and when they have made it clear that they are not wanting of my being here, why would it not be conceivable that they would also lie in an effort to destabilise my position? I have sworn my allegiances to Laufey-King, my sovereign and sire, and every one of you was present for it. So why would I go to Æsir — Æsir who held me captive, who I have no fondness for, who stole my birthright? I wouldn’t. I would never. I want Asgard to burn because of _what they did to me_.”

The last sentence had been no lie; he wanted Asgard to burn more than he could articulate.

“Who are you to believe: a lying snake who is devoted to an insurgent, or me, your prince? I have a reliable and trusted witness to further my position, and this scum of a jötunn, a jötunn who has confessed to leading a band of bastards against us, a jötunn who is a traitor to the crown by attempting to murder Lady Vörnissdóttir and myself, is causing a stir within your hearts?”

Hrimgerd spat, “If you were true to your claim in wanting Asgard to burn, then you would join us in the want for war. The Æsir have stood upon Jötunheimr and broken the truce for the second time in two months.”

Loki shook his head. “You can’t prove that any Asgardian has been here. And let’s say, for the sake of argument, that we are to believe you. I would still not want war because, unlike you it seems, I am mature enough to put aside my hate for the people of that realm; I have no wish to waste jötunn lives of value.” Loki looked around resolutely. “Need I say anything more?”

“Then why did you leave Útgarðar precisely when these reports of Æsir came?” Hrimgerd snarled in a desperate last attempt.

“It might have escaped your notice,” Loki said, “but news of these reports are new to those of Útgarðar. How can I react to something that no one knew anything about? And for that matter, I didn’t realise that I, a prince of this realm, was restricted to Útgarðar’s immediate territory. If I want to wander about during the day, then so I shall. You fabricated the reports to further your proof.”

Laufey nodded. “Take him away,” he said to the guards, his tone one of boredom. “Cut his lying tongue out, and he shall die at eventide.”

The guards bowed. Hrimgerd shook and cursed as he was dragged away, howling and thrashing.

“You’d think he’d put his tongue to better use, seeing as he’ll be relived of it soon,” Laufey muttered, and the court rung with scornful laughter.

Hrimgerd swore at Laufey and Fárbauti, and he turned his furious gaze on Loki. “You will burn with the rest of those Asgardians you hold so dear!”

Loki ignored him as the doors shut with an echoing boom.

Helblindi sneered after Hrimgerd. “You’re the one going to die, not my brother.” He clung to Loki’s arm, glaring at the door.

Fárbauti rose to the top of the stairs, and every eye turned to her as she looked down upon Loki. “These claims, however, will not be ignored. Thrymr will not be pleased with this verdict of execution, and he will not take this decision lightly. Loki-Prince is to be kept within the perimeters of Útgarðar. If indeed there are Æsir wandering around the Skógarmaðrfit, he will have no contact with them whatsoever.”

Loki’s stomach dropped. _No_ , he thought hollowly. He had expected something like this from Laufey, but never, never from Fárbauti; she was by far the more lenient of the two. He wrenched his arm from Helblindi’s grip and stalked forward to the throne, but two crossed spears blocked his access. “My queen-consort.” He shoved his shoulder against them and the guards holding them, saying at the same moment, “Please. Do not take my freedom fromme on the basis of a liar’s accusations.” ~~~~

“Your dam can, and she has,” Laufey said, “and I agree with her. You will not step foot outside the furthest dwelling of Útgarðar until the end of winter. That is the end of the discussion. Býleistr, escort him from here.” ~~~~

Býleistr’s smug expression fell a degree at the order, but he inclined his head and walked down the stairs as Loki was shoved back by the guards.

“Brother,” he said curtly, passing the guards.

Loki saw no choice but to follow Býleistr, and, with one last stiff bow to Laufey and Fárbauti, accompanied him out the doors.

Helblindi started to follow, but Býleistr turned to him. “You stay here.”

“ _What?_ ” Helblindi yelped. “That’s not fair!”

“Sire and Dam will be needing someone with brains like yours to help them.”

“Come Helblindi,” Laufey called. “Your brother is right; I’ll be needing you.”

Helblindi grumbled, but turned back to his sire. Helblindi sat himself on Laufey’s lap as the doors were opened for Loki and Býleistr. When they closed behind them, the corridor seemed even colder than it already was. Býleistr threw Loki a quick look before heading off.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and Loki spent the entirety of it looking at his feet. He opted to follow Býleistr through the castle, too angry and drained to be thinking of much else. And so he didn’t realise that Býleistr had led him somewhere he didn’t recognise.

Loki yelped as Býleistr grabbed his shoulder and slammed him against the wall of a quiet corridor. Lights exploded behind his eyes at the impact, and his horns banged into the wall. He couldn’t help but whimper in pain. He snarled as Býleistr’s free hand gripped one of his horns firmly around the base, forcing him to remain still.

“I meant _nothing_ of what I said in there,” Býleistr hissed. “Am I clear about that, _Brother_?”

“I’d figured that out for myself,” Loki spat. “Let me go, or I _swear_ I will castrate you.” His claws dug into Býleistr’s hip, and the skin was strangely rough for jötunn hide, he noticed. The claws drew blood.

Býleistr’s eyes widened, and his grip on Loki’s horn tightened. He shoved him up the wall, forcing Loki to his toes, and his claws came loose. He grimaced, breathing heavily through his nose as the bone moved; tears of pain came to his eyes.

“You have quite the liar’s tongue, but I know better. Why _the fuck_ did you go to him? Why did you go to Thor? _Why?_ ”

Loki pulled his knee up and kicked Býleistr away. He was shoved back against the opposite wall, and Loki lunged at him. Býleistr caught his arm, and Loki brought his opposite leg around, kneeing him in the side. Býleistr grunted in pain, and threw Loki painfully to the floor with a strangled cry. He tumbled over and over, bruising his elbows as he fought to right his balance.

Loki was trembling as he got to his feet. “Just why would you care? Why the _Hel_ would you care?!”

Býleistr quivered, his teeth clenched before he whispered, “Ek hriða ok sínum.”

He left Loki in the corridor, struggling to understand the words he’d never heard before.

* * *

#

* * *

_‘Ek’ means ‘I’, so ‘I something’. What is that something?_

Loki was brought out of his thoughts by a quiet tapping at his door, and it opened a sliver. Helblindi snuck inside, closing it hurriedly after him, and peeking at Loki over his shoulder.

“Dam’s worried,” he said bluntly.

Loki snorted. Fárbauti was troubling him, what with her reactions in the throne room. Pushing aside what she had said, he instead said, “I didn’t know Fárbauti could shift her form.” Loki looked at his hands. It explained somewhat why she hadn’t been alarmed when she had found him curled up and asleep in his Æsir skin during their first meeting.

Helblindi looked surprised. “Did you not wonder why you could shift? Where you got it from?”

Loki shrugged. He’d just been too thankful that he could shift — to hide his jötunn self.

“It’s really rare,” Helblindi said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “You’re the only one out of us who inherited it, because it’s Dam who’s the shifter, not Sire. If it was Sire that had it, then none of us could have gotten it.”

“Only females can pass it on?”

“Uh huh, ‘cause the babies need that constant flow of magic that allows for shifting later.” Helblindi cleared his throat. “She wants to talk to you; she’s coming in a few minutes.”

Loki snarled quietly. “Why would I want her here?”

“She wants to see you.” Helblindi scrambled up next to him. His nose wrinkled. “It was really quiet without you here,” he said, plucking at the fur so it stood up in small spikes. “I mean, I’ve just gotten used to you being here already, and I really think it’s better. When the Nóttvísa happened, it was always like … _something_ wasn’t right, in here.” He touched his heart. “But this year it’ll be different, I know it.”

“What’s the Nóttvísa?”

“The Night Song. During winter.”

Loki’s grip on the furs around his shoulders tightened. Winter was the month he had liked best in Asgard for reasons he despised to know the answers to and now, … now the very notion of it had been poisoned.

“You’ve never been to one; you were too young to have been there when you were born because of … what happened. Trust me — you’d remember if you’d witnessed one.” Helblindi threw his head back and grinned. “This one will _really_ tie you to Jötunheimr, just you wait.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No one has a choice. Not you, not me, not even Dam or Sire.”

The door opened, and Helblindi piped, “Dam!” He beamed, and Loki looked away, leaning towards the backboard of the bed as Fárbauti came into the room. She hesitated at the door when she saw Loki’s reaction.

“Helblindi, we will need a minute.”

“Why can’t I for a few minutes be with my br—?” At Fárbauti’s stern look, Helblindi hesitated before he nodded somewhat glumly and slid off the bed. He cast one last look at Loki before he left the room.

There was a stretch of silence before Loki whispered, “Why did you never tell me you could shift? Why did you take my freedom from me? Just _why_?”

Fárbauti’s eyes were full of steel. “Because you’re my child. I love you too much to lose you again, for any reason. Call it selfish if you will, but if I had told you of my shifting abilities, you would have pushed me away all the more.”

She was right. He would have, because it provided more and more concrete evidence that she was indeed his mother by blood.

“You lied to me.”

“And you haven’t?” She sat herself on the foot of the bed, and Loki hissed under his breath as she did so; she ignored him. “As for why I have restricted you to Útgarðar, it is because I know that you love Thor still, and it doesn’t take an intellect to figure out that was why you left so suddenly in the day. I saw the lightning strikes as well, and when no storm came for several nights, there was no further doubt that was what had happened.”

“Then why haven’t you punished me?” Loki fumed. “Treason is punished in Jötunheimr, is it not? Or is this another Æsir custom I have to train myself to ignore?”

“You weren’t punished because it would undermine us, and I also held my tongue because ripping you away from Asgard was cruel enough, and I do not want you to suffer any more than you have to. If it had been up to me, I would have at least given you the chance to say farewell — I hope now you’ve had that chance. But what has been done cannot be changed, and so all I can do now is help you in this course we’re on. And so, Loki, I have come to offer you this: I can teach you.”

“Teach me what?”

“About your shifting.”

Indecision tore at him. He wanted nothing from the woman who had destroyed him, but he wanted this, he wanted to _learn_.

“It was a gift in my family that hadn’t been inherited for many generations until I was born. My joy was great when you were born with it as well, and I mourned when you were lost. I mourned until I thought I would die I was so heartsick. I want to teach you, Loki, and just imagine the possibilities it would open for you if you could shift to any form your heart desired. It will ease your nights until the spring comes.”

Loki hunched further into the furs, digging his claws into his arms as he scowled. He didn’t want to spend any more time with her than necessary, but the offer was too tempting. And just maybe, if he could learn to master this skill, he could use it to escape Útgarðar before the spring.

“When?” he grumbled.

For the first time since she had come into the room, Fárbauti gave a hesitant smile. “At early eventide, if you would like.” She stood. “Meet me in the north-west tower on the highest of its floors. We can start there.”

* * *

#

* * *

Fárbauti was waiting for him the next night as she had promised. Loki had come with ill grace. He was alone, and she too had no one with her. The room was made completely of stone, circular and maybe a dozen paces in diameter. The single open window, stretching nearly floor to ceiling, looked down upon Útgarðar. Snowflakes blew through the window to leave a slight dusting on the floor.

Fárbauti looked up as he entered the small chamber and smiled. “Loki.”

He looked at her flatly, and said, “Let’s start.”

“Come here.”

Loki shuffled closer to her and she crouched, her elbows resting on her legs and one hand close to the floor. A single finger extended to the stone, the claw poised on its tip as she waited for him to descend to her level. “This gift of shifting will allow you to take the form of any creature in the realms, provided you know enough about them to allow a shift. Those similar to our shape, such as the Æsir, are easier because we share many physical similarities. We may enhance our own forms as well, which is what I did last night, adding bulk and height or taking it away. But a truly great shifter can change their shape into creatures that bear no resemblance to themselves.” As she was talking, she unbound her hair and removed her jewellery; her armbands, bracelets and the twisting gold necklace she wore she set neatly on the ground. And then, much to his surprise, she suddenly started removing her clothes.

Loki, barely holding back a yelp of surprise, looked away at once as she let her clothes fall around her. Amusement echoed in her tone as she said, “Why does such a thing bother you? You are my son.”

“Honestly?” he asked, still looking away. “I never saw … Frigga naked.”

Fárbauti laughed under her breath before continuing, “We are family, and there is no shame in that.”

Loki glared at her from the corner of his eye. And then he jumped back in sheer reflex as Fárbauti began to change before his eyes. Dark feathers burst from her skin, her hair receded, and her chest expanded. Shining feathers sprouted from her rump and so, within the space of a heartbeat, she stood before Loki as a great and powerful black bird made of sharp angles and hard lines. She took up a huge amount of space, her claws and beak shining like obsidian, and her eyes were blood red.

And soon, she was herself again, kneeling on the stone. “There is a feeling within your mind, a source to be tapped and reached for when you so desire to change, is there not?”

Loki, swallowing, nodded. “It was blocked, in Asgard,” he muttered. “It hurt whenever I tried.”

Anger flashed in Fárbauti’s eyes, and a low growl came from her throat. Her breathing was hard and ragged. “How _dare_ he?” she whispered. “How _dare_ the Allfather cripple you like that?”

Loki felt a thrill, and he buried it deep at once; she never need know.

Her voice was tight when she said, “Are there any Asgardian birds you are familiar with enough to attempt a shift?”

Loki nodded. He was familiar with many of them, and his mind alighted on an eagle.

“Imagine your bird. Imagine the wind at the tips of your fingers. Imagine the feathers lining your body. Imagine how it would be to _fly_.”

Loki closed his eyes, reaching for that muscle and flexed it. He shrunk, and his eyes snapped open as his felt his body condensing, arms elongating, and his legs shedding weight. His vision blurred, and he felt disorientated, wincing as dark brown feathers grew across his body, as his face began to lengthen into a beak and his bones began to move.

And then he lost it. He let out a cry of frustration as his shape began to revert back to his jötunn one, the feathers slipping away and his arms rotating forwards again, fingers extending, and toes realigning. He fell painfully on his back, sprawled on the stone, and furious with himself. Why couldn’t he hold the shift? His Æsir shape he held without a problem.

He readjusted the _kjilt_ , looking anywhere but at Fárbauti as he came back to a crouch.

“Do not worry,” she said. “It takes practice. Perhaps then … something smaller to start with.”

“No,” Loki growled. _The eagle, the eagle…._

“You do not teach a child to take their first steps on slick ice,” Fárbauti said firmly. “Something smaller.

“Focus on what you want your body to become. What form you want your flesh and bone to flow into like a river.” Her arms bulked with muscle as they had done the night before, her fingers lengthening, her height increasing. “It is hard the first times, but it will become effortless the more you try, I promise.”

Loki looked to his hand, flexing his fingers. He felt incompetent that he was unable to do even the simplest of things, like elongate his teeth, something he had no doubt shifter child could do as soon as they could walk. He reached for the shifting muscle in his mind, willing his teeth to lengthen the same way he willed himself to become Æsir. There was a poking sensation at his lower lip, and he grasped for the feeling, determined to keep doing whatever it was that was making this work. He was met by success, but it was still a relief to release the shift.

Fárbauti’s eyes glittered. “It will get easier with time, and for how often you practice.”


	17. Chapter Fourteen - Playing the Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

As her sire had predicted, Sigyn’s reputation was fast growing. Seven women had fallen beneath her might in as many nights, and there were stirrings of discontent crawling up the social chain to the higher Houses. Sigyn’s position — that of lowborn nobility with a clear winning streak — had brought her animosity from all sides. It’d been expected that she would fall quickly under a strong opponent, but her continuous victories against ever strengthening foes boded ill for those challenging her and to herself. She was stiff and sore and sported multiple injuries. Her arms were covered in scratches and bruises, a collection of scars to add to her life. But she felt triumphant despite the aches and pains.

“They hate you,” Glut said quietly one night. They were sitting in the feasting hall, part of the castle that had been given to the women vying for Loki’s attention. Perhaps nearly thirty of them were eating and talking quietly amongst themselves. Glut and Sigyn were seated with their heads together over bloody cuts of lyngbakr. “The other nine highest. You’re proving to be an unforseen problem to them, and one they had hoped would be dealt with quickly.”

“And do you feel the same?” Sigyn asked, wary.

“Jealous? Yes, it would be hard not to considering the prize at stake,” Glut said, “but not hatred. I don’t hate you. I’m impressed to say the least, but I don’t hate you.”

Sigyn let out a shaky breath of relief. Jealousy was better than hate, but even so, she was disappointed. Glut was a rare individual who she found she could easily make friends with. “I feel no kindness for them, either,” Sigyn said. “I feel kindness to few in this room.”

“I would have called you a fool if you did so,” Glut said. “This is ground you have to tread carefully.”

They were interrupted as Skaerir slid herself next to Sigyn and said, “Loki-Prince has returned.”

Sigyn straightened up. “When?”

“A few minutes ago. No point going to him though — he has business with his sire and dam.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Rumours are going around at the moment, and from what I’ve heard on the way up here, something to do with Þrymheimr.”

Glut’s brows lowered, and her claws scrapped against the tabletop. “Þrymheimr isn’t going to help anyone. They’re going to make things worse for the whole realm if they’re still insistent on a coup against Asgard. I’ve heard as well that Thrymr wants Loki dead.”

“Rumour, no doubt. He wouldn’t declare something like that to anyone for the fear of being overheard if not betrayed. But if he’s privately thinking it, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Skaerir said. “Laufey’s son has been returned to him, and instead of seeing it as a gift from Oblivion, Thrymr sees it as a danger. In his eyes, the chances of Loki-Prince betraying Jötunheimr are high. It’s just so complicated.”

“His concerns are valid though,” Glut pointed out.

Skaerir said in reassurance, “But Laufey-King wouldn’t have made such arrangements as these—” she gestured around to the women, “—if he really thought Loki-Prince posed any serious threat.”

Glut nodded. “True. If it were merely for a point of pride Laufey-King took Loki-Prince back, he would rather have just shut Loki-Prince away. If he only cared about taking his blood from Odin’s clutches we wouldn’t be here now.”

Sigyn bit her tongue. That wasn’t necessary true.

Skaerir turned her full attention on Sigyn, and said, “You do know what this means, right? The _hólmgangar_ will be coming thick and fast now.”

Sigyn knew it well. The _hólmgangar_ had still been fought in Loki’s absence. One or two had taken place each night, but now that Loki was to watch them, the number would be upped to four or five nightly. And with such, it meant that the highborn would finally come into the fight.

Glut seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. “The respite is over, Sigyn. You’ll have to fight harder than you ever have before.”

“I know.”

They continued to talk quietly amongst themselves for a few more minutes, looking over briefly when the steward bid them to stay in the hall for the time being whilst Loki was in audience with the king and queen-consort. Everyone was restless, and Sigyn found herself fidgeting incessantly. Skaerir went to the door and sat, listening to the updates that came every few minutes as to the happenings in the throne room. One in particular stirred the interest of many.

“Attacked?” Sigyn whispered.

Skaerir nodded, shifting her weight from leg to leg. “Þengraðr. Þrymheimr loyals.”

Sigyn grimaced, abandoning the cut of meat she’d been nibbling on. With the female ability to supress fertility, it had always been a constant amazement to her just how many bastards there were around Jötunheimr.

“And what happened?” Glut asked.

“Dead,” Skaerir said. “But apparently the prince brought back prisoners — their leader, and children.”

“For what purpose?”

“The leader, I believe, will be used as an example to all, and the children, who knows? They pose a problem, but perhaps they’ll be some use around the castle. Most of the band were bastards—”

Skaerir was cut off. There was a stirring from behind them, and Sigyn looked over her shoulder to see a knot of women gathering around the far end of the room. The three of them stood and padded over to see what was going on. The nine other highborn had banded together on the farthest side of the room, preferring to sit with each other in stony silence that was thick with tension. Silence that was stretched taut as a woman stepped forth to stand face-to-face with the highborn closest to the edge of the table.

The woman had proved herself to be strong, already having felled two opponents in previous _hólmgangar_. Her fighting skills were part of the higher end of the spectrum, and her confidence was obvious for all to see. Sigyn thought her name was Gnissa.

“Haera Hloajardóttir,” Gnissa said, “I challenge you to _hólmganga_.”

If Gnissa was confident, then Haera was arrogant. She stood and, looking down her nose, padded over to Gnissa; there was a swagger to her step. Haera was a warrior through and through. Her head was shaved in the warrior’s style, and her heritage lines were now due to darken any year. She was lean, whipcord thin, and very tall.

A sneer coiled around her lips. “You think it clever to challenge me, lowborn?”

“I am no more lowborn than you,” Gnissa snapped. “Do you accept my challenge?”

Haera’s smile was cold. “Well, why not? I accept. We’ll fight come eventide, after that Þrymheimr bastard has been executed; we’ll fight on his blood.”

“Well,” Skaerir muttered to Sigyn out of the corner of her mouth. “This should be interesting.”

The first highborn fight always was.

* * *

#

* * *

The first thing Sigyn noticed about the Þrymheimr loyal was the swelling, bloody mess that was his mouth. Two guards caged him in, and he moved as if every step pained him. He was pushed unceremoniously into the middle of the colosseum, pointedly looking forward and ignoring the screams of derision of the people in the stands. They howled and jeered at him as the guards forced him to his knees. His hands were iced to the floor, but he didn’t fight the bonds. A snarl was curled around his ruined mouth, but it was a tired snarl, a snarl that was put in place for the aesthetic rather than as a threat.

“What’s happened to him?” Skaerir asked.

“Tongue’s been cut out,” Alfarin answered. Her brother clapped loudly and spat at the condemned man. “Heard he tried to push the blame of what happened onto Loki-Prince and insulted Laufey-King, Fárbauti-Queen-Consort, their sons, and Thjazi-General. Apparently it was one of the most vulgar things ever said to Laufey-King’s face.”

“It was all or nothing,” Skaerir muttered.

The crowds fell silent as two men came into the colosseum, their statures so different it was almost laughable. The huge one, Mögthrasir, was not someone famed for his kindness. He had fought in the Jötunheimr-Asgard War and had killed dozens of Æsir; Bláin had called him brutal on many occasions. Mögthrasir was covered in scars, his skin littered with them to such an extent that many of his heritage lines had healed back over scars which reduced the normally smooth lines to ugly lumps. His teeth were much longer than any Sigyn had seen before, magically extended and sharpened into points — talking must have been a challenge, she mused. Muscles bulged under his skin, and everyone in the colosseum heard his steps.

The slender man beside him was the most powerful of Útgarðar’s  _goðar_.

The _goðar_ were a powerful people, said to have been born with a piece of Oblivion’s very heart within them, and, because of it, were gifted with magic of such vast terms it was startling to even think about. The _goðar_ were the only reason Jötunheimr had survived so long without the Casket. How this was done was only whispered at. Some spoke of blood sacrifices, some of _seiðr_  enough to poison the mind into madness, and others still said that the _goðar_ had tied their souls to Jötunheimr and gave up their magic for the realm, leaving them so weak they could do nothing but breathe, eat, and sleep.

The  _goði_  standing before the crowd was the head of their order — a position that had been thrust onto him in the last nights of the war. Skrýmir-Goði was almost four thousand years old. He wore jewellery of black  _stjarna-járn_  harvested from Gastropnir’s Ironwood, a metal that was like liquid on his body, smooth and void-like. His snow fox fur cloak swept along the floor behind him, and the carved staff he held was the only piece of wood Sigyn had ever seen; it was rumoured to have been fashioned from one of Yggdrasil’s branches. It was strung with runestones, metals, bones, and feathers whose meanings were lost to her.

The Þrymheimr loyal’s eyes widened in alarm when he saw the newcomers. He started to struggle. He strained to get away from the guards that held him, but with his hands incapacitated, there was little he could do short of detaching his arms.

“My king,” Mögthrasir said, giving a low bow towards the royal box. His voice had a lisp to it that Sigyn attributed to the sheer size of his fang-like teeth.

Sigyn looked to the box as well. The king was seated on his throne, his demeanour relaxed and his legs crossed. On either side of him sat Býleistr-Prince — who was just as at ease as his sire — and Helblindi-Prince — who was clinging to the edge of his seat in obvious rapture. The queen-consort and Loki-Prince were dressed very simply, and both looked slightly windswept. Loki looked far more relaxed than Sigyn had ever seen him. There was something in his demeanour that spoke of content, and Sigyn couldn’t help but smile a little.

The king stood up, and his gaze was merciless. He gave a slight incline of his head to Mögthrasir in acknowledgement before his attention focused on the Þrymheimr loyal. “Hrimgerd of the House of Morn, you have been accused of treason towards the throne by assaulting my son, insulting the crown, and lying to me, your king, knowingly in an attempt to condemn Loki-Prince. As such, you are sentenced to die. Is there anything you would like to say in your defence?”

Laughs rung through the air, but Hrimgerd could do nothing but look at Laufey in fury.

The king’s lip curled. “So you shall die.”

Mögthrasir wrapped one of his hands around the back Hrimgerd’s neck and lifted his head up. Hrimgerd was silent, even though the effort to remain so must have been great. Mögthrasir’s hand was crushing his neck, and Hrimgerd’s arms strained in their sockets.

“Wait,” Laufey-King called.

Mögthrasir paused, and Hrimgerd was forced to look at the king.

“If you love your bastards so much,” the king said, “then perhaps you would care to join them in their worthlessness, their lacking. I sentence you, Mornjarson, to  _kynkvísl-slíta_.”

Skaerir grinned almost manically at Sigyn. “Oh, this is going to be  _painful_.”

Sigyn had seen these sorts of executions before, and it gave her no pleasure to watch them when they were dealt out. _Kynkvísl-slíta_ was a harsh punishment Sigyn wished upon no one. She gripped her arms almost protectively, running her thumbs over the double parallel lines in her skin. _Kynkvísl-slíta_ was the removal of lineage — the removal of one’s heritage lines.

Ice flashed in Mögthrasir’s hand as he shaped a blade. He placed it at the back of Hrimgerd’s head and began to hack his hair off. Blood dribbled onto the ice and, a few minutes later, Mögthrasir dropped his hair onto the ground. After this, Hrimgerd’s clothes were stripped from him. Hrimgerd attempted to cover himself to the best of his ability, but Mögthrasir merely held him up. Alfarin laughed at the man’s misfortune, but Sigyn watched stonily.

The Skrýmir-Goði stepped forward, and Hrimgerd’s eyes widened. He truly began to fight against Mögthrasir now, but the hulking man merely held him down as the _goði_ placed the pads of his fingers on Hrimgerd’s bare skull.

Sigyn watched in horrified fascination as Hrimgerd’s skin began to ripple, the heritage lines dissolving as Skrýmir’s magic worked through Hrimgerd’s body. He let out an echoing and nerve-grating scream of pain as the  _kykrsvell_ , the living ice making up his heritage lines, was drawn to Skrýmir’s fingers. The _goði_ was silent as the ice began to crawl up his arms, winding about them like a lover’s fingers before settling into one of the many charms adorning his staff. Skrýmir’s face was grim throughout.

When he finally stepped away, Hrimgerd slumped to the ground, tears flowing freely down his face. Sigyn had seen heritage lines being stripped from people too many times for her liking. And always, always, it brought unimaginable pain. Pain so severe Sigyn had even heard stories of people going mad from it. It was a pain that never left, a pain that came from the very bones as the magic was ripped away.

Sigyn snuck another glance at Loki-Prince. His face was stoic and betrayed nothing.

Mercy came quickly after that. Mögthrasir’s claws pulled across Hrimgerd’s throat. The jötunn’s blood splattered over the ice, congealing into beads as the body fell heavily to the side. The crowd roared their approval.

The king smiled to himself as the body was taken away — Hrimgerd’s blood left a bright streak on the ice. “And let it be known if  _any_  dare do what he did, they will face a similar fate. Hang him on the walls of Útgarðar as a warning to all who even think to cross me. Let the birds ravage his flesh.”

If anyone wanted to challenge the king after that display, Sigyn would have called them a fool. Laufey was not one to bestow mercy often.

The king’s smile widened. “Now, _hólmgangar_ have been called by several wishing for the attentions of my son. Let the first who called their challenges come forth.”

Skrýmir and Mögthrasir both bowed and then turned to leave, passing Haera and Gnissa as they came into the arena. There was a different kind of glee that came over the crowd at that moment — the sound of a crowd turning to cheer on a _hólmganga_.

Again, the confidence surrounding Haera and Gnissa was vastly different as well. Gnissa was cocky, an easy smile graced her lips, and she was bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her short hair had been smoothed back against her head and her fighting leathers fit close against her body, leaving nothing that could be snagged and used as an advantage. Haera, on the other hand, was quiet, her vanity held close to her chest, and exuding none of the smiles that Gnissa was giving out freely. She was dressed similarly.

The women came to a stop in front of the royal family, and each gave a bow.

Thjazi-General stepped forth, and Sigyn could not help but notice he looked harried. The demeanour of ease he had shown during the other _hólmgangar_ he had presided over was gone. He looked weary and a little ill; Sigyn thought it must have been because of Þrymheimr’s continuous hostility.

“Son and Daughters of the Ice. Both parties have recognised this _hólmganga_ between Haera Hloajardóttir, seventh born of House Hloi, and Gnissa Eldsdóttir, fourth born of House Eld. The official rules apply to this _hólmganga_ and have not been subjected to change. Speak now if there are any objections.”

Eyes turned to Loki, who gave a stiff nod before his gaze went skyward.

The fight was one of the fastest initiated Sigyn had ever seen. She leant forward on the edge of her seat as Gnissa launched herself at Haera, a scream on her lips. Haera stepped back once, twice, three times as Gnissa swiped at her. Then Haera pivoted around, snapping her arm out, the palm of her hand extended. It caught Gnissa on the shoulder. She jerked, stumbling back before she set her stance again. She rolled her shoulder, cricked her neck, and snarled loudly.

Haera laughed, settling back to wait. Her eyes were calculating as Gnissa paced a circle around her. Five blows, delivered so fast Sigyn couldn’t follow them, flew at Haera. They rained upon her with blinding speed, and Haera merely jumped back, her lip curled. When Gnissa’s arm went past her face, Haera grabbed for it. She pulled it over her head and drove her elbow into Gnissa’s stomach.

Gnissa cried out and kicked at Haera, pushing her back. Haera appeared quite content with the situation, stepping back a couple of paces as Gnissa’s legs shook. It had been a hard blow, and, as a result, flecks of blood flew from Gnissa’s mouth with her sharp pants.

“Had enough, Gnissa?” Haera teased. “Do you wish to yield?”

That was enough to get Gnissa back into the fight. She pushed off hard and sprinted at Haera. Her claws flashed in the air and, like she had done every time so far, Haera ducked and weaved between her blows.

“Fool,” Skaerir muttered. “She’s going to exhaust you — fall back!”

It was true Sigyn saw: Haera was playing with Gnissa like a fox with its food.

Gnissa, after several minutes, had begun to gasp for air. She hung back, waiting for Haera to do something. She was trembling, her arms and legs covered with tiny little scratches from Haera’s claws and teeth. Haera, however, showed little signs of exhaustion. Her eyes were alight as she paced a circle with Gnissa, unblinking and her gaze fixed on her opponent.

“Come on!” Gnissa screamed. “Fight me!  _Fight me!_ ”

Haera smiled, and did just as Gnissa asked. Her blows were carefully aimed, claws jabbing for eyes, throat, chest, and other weak points along Gnissa’s centre. Gnissa was forced onto the defence, arms raised to fend of Haera’s unrelenting and merciless blows upon her. In one last desperate attempt to slow her down, Gnissa went for Haera’s legs.

She lunged, and Haera’s claws jerked up and across her face.

There was a collective intake of breath from the crowd as Gnissa screamed. She crashed onto the ice, howling with pain and her hands at her face. And when she looked up, Sigyn swallowed. Four claw marks marred her face, stretching from the bottom of her chin, across her nose, to her forehead in a diagonal line. One of her nostrils had been reduced to a scrap of skin, fluttering every time Gnissa drew breath through the dreadfully misaligned cartilage. Her lips were in a similar shredded state. It was nothing but mercy that had spared her eyes. Eyes that were watering with pain and utter hate.

“Do you give up, lowborn?” Haera called.

Gnissa turned herself around and got to her feet. Her legs were quaking, and one hand was pressed to her face. “How you wish I would,” she whispered.

Haera snorted. “I’ll make you wish for it.”

She kicked Gnissa square in the chest, and the woman was tossed back. She cried out when she hit the ground, and she tried to get to her feet again. But Haera was too fast. She planted a foot into Gnissa’s back and forced her to the ground. Gnissa went down hard, and she whimpered as Haera pulled her arm behind her back.

“Surrender?” inquired Haera, calm. The claws upon her toes dug into Gnissa’s back, and she moved her foot down her spine. Blood ran thick, and Gnissa whimpered. “Come now, Gnissa, spare yourself.”

“I yield,” Gnissa whimpered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t _get — that_.” Her arm was twisted further.

Gnissa cried, “I yield, I yield,  _please_ —!”

“Match,” Thjazi-General said. “The winner is Lady Hloajardóttir.”

The crowd shouted their approval.

Haera stepped off Gnissa as another woman came out to tend to Gnissa. Haera’s eyes scanned the crowds, and Sigyn froze as her eyes locked onto hers.

Haera smiled. “You’re next,” she mouthed.

* * *

#

* * *

“Oblivion, why wasn’t the _hólmganga_ stopped when the girl’s face was torn to bits?” Alfarin said, pacing back and forth and running his hands over his head.

“You know the rules as well as any of us,” Skaerir said, crossing her arms. “The match isn’t over until one contestant surrenders.”

Alfarin turned on her, incredulous. “She did, and the match wasn’t called until she’d _begged_. She’s going to carry those scars forever. Her face was ruined, Skae!”

“She’ll be fine,” Sigyn said. “The healers and the _goðar_ are tending to her at the moment.”

Alfarin waved it away. “ _Goðar_ or no _goðar_ , they can’t prevent scarring when a wound’s that bad. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s going to have trouble speaking from now on, what with injuries like that.”

“But she’ll live,” Skaerir said with a yawn. “Better have trouble speaking than being dead.”

“But she’s going to have to live with the scars right across her face. Her shame at her defeat will be known to all.”

“Just place a glamour on the scars,” Skaerir snorted.

“Oblivion, Skae!” Alfarin shouted. “I don’t know if it’s gone over your head, but Sigyn is fighting in this thing, and she’s already being targeted by the lower Houses. Now we’ve seen what these higher Houses can do, and I don’t like it. At the rate this is going, Sig will be one of the next ones they’ll fight.” His eyes turned onto Sigyn. “And I don’t want to see that happen to you. You’ll lose everything, just as that girl has.”

“And what do you suggest I do?” Sigyn said, annoyed. “I can hardly pull out now. I’ve come too far, and I’ll look like a coward.”

“Challenge someone when eventide comes around,” Alfarin said. “Someone who has a similar skill level to you, and let them defeat you.”

Sigyn’s eyes widened. “And where is the guarantee that they won’t do to me what Haera did to Gnissa either? Violence like that plants ideas into the minds of others, and they’ll start to perform atrocities like that as well. If I roll over and let them defeat me, who is to say I won’t have my face cut into ribbons as well?”

“Sig—”

“If that is to happen to me, then I will let someone of a higher House do it to me. I will have my pride to have been defeated by someone stronger than me than by someone weaker.”

Alfarin gnashed his teeth. “Oblivion, Sig, you’re not making this easy.”

“Where’s our strategy gone?” Sigyn snapped. “You’re the one now throwing everything away. After how far I’ve come, after every _hólmganga_ I have won and the reputation I have built, and you want to throw it away? Not only would I be embarrassed, but you would be because you’re my brother.”

“And that is exactly why I want you to pull out while you still can, and as safely as you can,” Alfarin said. “The game is getting uglier by the night, and every night the danger grows to new extremes. I don’t care if I’m going to be embarrassed — I care that you’ll be safe and whole.”

“What a mountain of support you are,” Skaerir muttered. “Sigyn, what he  _should_  be saying is this: you can also start to play dirty, and so you start ripping faces to bits as well.”

Sigyn snorted. “I’m not going to ruin anyone’s face,” she said.

“Well, there goes all our hopes,” Skaerir said.

“Thank you,” Sigyn said scathingly.

Skaerir shrugged.

A knock came at the door, and Alfarin surged forward to answer it. He wrenched it open. “And who are you? Come to slit my sister’s throat now, highborn? Can’t you wait for the arena?”

“Why would I do that?” came a voice. “If anyone’s going to get their throat slit, it’ll be you. Move aside.”

Sigyn craned her neck. She smiled. “Glut,” she sighed in relief. “Come in.”

Glut stepped past, raising an eyebrow at Alfarin. “Sigyn,” she said, striding over to her and sitting herself next to Sigyn on the bed. “I need to talk to you, urgently. And alone.”

Alfarin laughed. “Not a chance.”

“Honestly, if I were to harm your sister in any way, I would want to do it in _hólmganga_ to make it seem more like an accident,” Glut huffed.

“It’s called subtly, Alfarin,” Skaerir taunted. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it. Besides, Glut is a friend.”

“She’s a highborn,” Alfarin complained.

“And why is your brother so determined to antagonise me because of my family?” Glut asked.

Sigyn stood up. “Alfarin, leave,” she ordered.

“No—”

But Skaerir cut in: “By Oblivion, Alfarin. If anything really was to happen, it’s not like Sigyn can’t take care of herself.” She grabbed Alfarin by the upper arm and dragged him to the door. “Sig, you might want to poke your head out soon, or I think Alfa here will fret all the more.”

“ _Skae._ ”

“Just get out, Alfarin,” Sigyn said.

Skaerir laughed and tugged Alfarin out of the door. It shut behind the two of them loudly, leaving Sigyn and Glut alone.

“How are you?” Glut asked after a moment’s silence. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be feeling too well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bluntly? You’re in a hated position. Many want your blood; I told you that yesternight,” Glut said. “I’m not an idiot, Sigyn. Haera is unforgiving, and I saw her looking at you when Gnissa was defeated.”

Sigyn’s gut squirmed. “I can’t do much about my position,” she said. “I have to keep fighting.”

“Do you trust me?”

Sigyn looked at her, confused. “Why do you ask this?”

“I’m not new to these things, not like you are,” Glut said. “I’ve done this before. This is the same as what happened with Býleistr-Prince, I remember it well. I’m just surprised about how long it took this time to get to this stage — it happened much faster last time. Sigyn.” Glut turned to look her dead in the eye. “You’re in danger.”

“Don’t turn into Alfarin,” Sigyn said. “He’s just told me this rather extensively.”

“Then he’s told you to get out, hasn’t he?”

Sigyn nodded.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I can get you out, Sigyn.”

Sigyn stared, hurt. “What? Why?”

“Because this, all of this will tear you to shreds,” Glut said.

“You want me to fail.”

“You’re my friend, Sigyn, and I don’t want to see you get hurt—”

“I can’t pull out!” Sigyn snapped. “You can see I cannot get out of this. The only way I can leave with some shred of my dignity is to be defeated.”

“And that is why I have come. Sigyn, do you trust me?”

Sigyn nodded again.

“Good. Then trust me when I say you must get out as soon as you can.”

“Then you come up with a plan!” Sigyn said a bit more viciously than she had intended.

Glut was silent for a second before she said, “I have a plan. Come eventide, I will challenge you to _hólmganga_.”

Sigyn looked at her, startled. “Why?”

“You haven’t been within the circles of the higher Houses,” Glut said. “They want to defeat you in the most humiliating of ways; they want to permanently cripple you if necessary. I don’t want to put you through that, Sig. I won’t see you broken and bloodied before all. You’re in too deep, and you will be incapacitated for the rest of your nights if what I hear the others planning is true; you will end up in a much worse state than Gnissa. Accepting my help is an easy way out, and I beg you to take it for your own  _good_. Sig, please.”

It took every shred of Sigyn’s self-control not to snap her teeth at Glut’s throat. She struggled with the anger, pressing it down within her. She wanted to decline Glut’s help, to keep pushing and pushing until she could push no more, but she had seen what had happened to Gnissa as much as anyone had. Her blood was still vivid in her mind’s eye. But if she agreed and let Glut defeat her, she would be strengthening the woman’s own position — a double-edged blade. She bit her lip, indecision thrumming through her. Why shouldn’t she try and win? Just why couldn’t she? She was perfectly capable.

“I’m not afraid,” Sigyn said, squaring her shoulders.

Glut hissed, frustrated. “Sigyn, why can’t you see that  _I’m_  afraid for you? I will not see you become Gnissa.”

“Gnissa will be fine. The _goðar_ —”

“The _goðar_ can only do so much,” Glut said. “The scarring is to her face; it’s inevitable her self-esteem will be damaged.”

“Oblivion, if I had wanted to listen to this, I would have invited Alfarin to stay and jabber at me,” Sigyn bit out.

“Sigyn, he is right,” Glut said as she stood up. She gripped Sigyn’s arms. “As desirable as Loki-Prince is, you do not deserve to be torn to shreds over him. You’ve seen how he acts towards us; he doesn’t care for you, for me, for any of us. Gnissa will be as she is forever for no reason at all. In all probability, Loki-Prince does not even know her name, nor will he remember her in ten years’ time. Do you want to have that happen to you? And if you do win, would you want to condemn yourself to a life of misery at his side?”

“I….” She swallowed. Glut was right. Loki didn’t care; Loki was Æsir in thought, and if anything Sigyn had heard about the Æsir was true, then Loki had no doubt been lied to about the twisted culture of the jötnar. But the way he had looked at her, had spared her punishment when she had spoken out to him….

But the risk was the prevalent thought in her mind. This was the best opportunity she would have to get out as uninjured as possible. She could not defeat the higher Houses — her skills weren’t enough for that. The fight that night had shown her that much.

And winning was the other safe way out of this, and no matter what her family said, Sigyn knew she could not win.

It was hard to nod to Glut, to agree to her plan. “Alright. We will fight.”

Glut’s stiff shoulders seemed to relax at once, and a relieved smile came to her lips. “You do not know the favour you are doing yourself, Sigyn. I’m so sorry about this.”

“No, you’re right,” Sigyn said. “You’re right. I … I can’t thank you enough.”

“Thank me with your life,” Glut said.

* * *

#

* * *

True to her word, Glut strode forward as soon as Sigyn stepped into the dining hall at eventide. She cut through the throng as fast as she could so she could get to Sigyn first. Another woman had spotted Sigyn as well, and her eyes had narrowed at once. Sigyn’s eyes flicked towards Glut.

“Sigyn Bláinsdóttir,” the woman called. “I—”

“Silence,” Glut hissed, rounding on the woman.

She stilled at once.

Glut turned her eyes on Sigyn. “Sigyn Bláinsdóttir,” she started, “I challenge you to _hólmganga_.”

Chattered died down at once. Sigyn thought she heard someone mutter, “Serves her right; she’ll finally be defeated, and by a highborn no less.”

Sigyn squared her shoulders, heart pounding. “I accept,” she said coolly.

* * *

#

* * *

Like all of her _hólmgangar_ before, the colosseum was not attended by the staggering numbers of the night before, nor the _hólmgangar_ Loki had fought. There were perhaps two hundred or so, filling the bottom tiers and leaning causally on the low walls.

“Sigyn.”

Sigyn drew back a little and smiled as Alfarin stepped in front of her. “Alfarin.”

“It’s going to be over, soon,” Alfarin said.

“Yes,” Sigyn said. “Has Skaerir come to terms with it, yet?”

“You know her — of course she hasn’t,” Alfarin said, “but you know she’s pleased, even if she won’t admit it.”

“She won’t forgive me for years to come.”

“Come now, you have another four thousand years to grow sick of each other,” Alfarin laughed. “This would be a bad time in your life to ruin the relationship you have with her.”

Sigyn dropped her chin in an effort to hide her grin.

“She’s in the stands, though,” Alfarin said, “and we’ll be cheering for you, no matter wh—”

Alfarin’s words were cut short when Sigyn stood and hugged him tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Alfarin scoffed. “I thought you were furious with me.”

“Oh, I still am, but I would rather not have my face in the state Gnissa’s is currently in.”

“A very sensible thought, my idiot sister.”

“And sometimes I need that voice of reason in my life.”

“Well, you have a _hólmganga_ to fight. Let’s celebrate later when you’re out of this in one piece, hmm?”

Sigyn let go and, after smiling at him one more time, walked out into the colosseum. She kept her eyes forward, shoulders back and head high as the crowd clapped. She bowed to the royal stands, holding the position for a few heartbeats before straightening up.

“My king, my queen-consort, my princes,” she said.

Glut walked up next to her, and mirrored what Sigyn had done.

The crowds fell silent as Thjazi spoke. He stated the contestants and the rules as was routine, and Glut said out of the corner of her mouth, “Fight well, Sigyn.”

“You too,” she replied.

“You don’t know how glad I am that you’re doing this.”

“You don’t know how thankful my brother is. He was singing praises well into the day.”

Glut chuckled. “I’m sorry, Sigyn, about all of this.”

“I am as well. But it is for the best.”

Sigyn was the first the run into the fight, and she swung at Glut’s head. She pulled her blow, and Glut caught it easily. Glut pushed her back, harder than she thought necessary, and she almost lost her balance. She had little time to orient herself. Glut ran at her, and Sigyn raised her arms to defend herself. Glut grabbed one of her wrists and, before Sigyn could relax her arms, Glut twisted it. Sigyn gasped in pain, and too late she realised she had been duped. Glut’s fist smashed into her jaw, and Sigyn was thrown backwards, tumbling over and over. When she came to rest, she struggled to get back to her feet. Her claws scraped against the ground as she crouched low, quivering.

“Glut—”

Glut said nothing. A low snarl rumbled from her throat, and Sigyn’s heart pounded. Oblivion, she was in over her head. She was fighting a highborn, and one who had evidently decided to turn on her. Sigyn could never win this. But it wouldn’t stop her from trying.

She curled her fingers and dug her toes into the ground, her own lip lifting in a snarl as she shifted her weight back to ready her move. Glut came at her, and Sigyn leapt away, ducking and weaving around Glut’s blows in an attempt to avoid them. She was fast, and Sigyn did not escape unharmed. Glut’s claws tore into her arms, her chest, and her legs. Blood spattered the ground, and Sigyn’s world was one of unrelenting blows. The crowd had been drowned out, her focus narrowed in on the teeth and claws coming her way.

_“Middle. Stomach, sternum, throat, chin, face. Blows to those areas will slow your opponent down,” Bláin had said when she was just learning how to fight. He touched each spot on her with a gentle finger, and then had proceeded to teach her how to reach past a defence to get at those areas. “When you’re in close, your knees and elbows are your strongest weapons. But what is the strongest part of your body?”_

_“My legs!”_

_“Then use them.”_

And so now, Sigyn lashed out with a foot, driving her heel up and into Glut’s chest with a cry. Glut was thrown away, but not before she caught Sigyn’s leg and dug her claws in. Sigyn fell forward; her leg burned with pain from the gauges Glut had left there. She rolled back onto her feet, nearly all of her weight now on her good leg. Her other was shaking to such an extent she didn’t trust it to bear her weight. She was at a disadvantage now, and a big one at that.

Glut straightened up, rubbing her chest and breathing heavily. She growled, her eyes narrowing at the blood pouring down Sigyn’s leg. A wild grin came to her face.

“Glut—” Sigyn tried again, looking to appeal to their friendship. Her heart was beating rapidly, and her chest was heaving with emotion. But there was nothing in Glut’s eyes, and whatever hope Sigyn had still harboured within her, died. Betrayal stung her heart. Oh Oblivion, she had been such a fool.

“Sigyn!  _Sigyn!_ ”

Skaerir, yelling at her from the stands. But what could her sister do? Nothing.

But Sigyn could do something, and so she shifted her stance into a fighting position as best she could; her leg shook precariously under the weight, but Sigyn was determined not to fall. “Come get me, you bitch,” she hissed at Glut. “You lying bitch, come and get me!”

“As you wish,” Glut said.

As Sigyn expected her to do, Glut went for her injured leg. Sigyn twisted about, bringing her fist around in a skyward strike that Glut avoided with a quick drop of her shoulder. Sigyn’s other hand grabbed her at, but Glut was too fast. She rammed her knee into the inside of Sigyn’s injured leg, and it buckled beneath her. Her knee twisted, and she cried out in pain. And then Glut was there once again, her hand aimed at her midsection, her claws extended—

They rent the flesh as if it was butter. They sunk in deeply, from her hipbone to her ribs, and Sigyn screamed as the claws caught under the bones. Blood spilt on the ice, and she fell back, howling. She hardly felt the impact with the ground, instead curling into a ball.

“I yield,” she whispered. “Glut … please …”

Glut ignored her. She crouched, digging her knee into Sigyn’s solar plexus, and her claws cut into her arms as she uncurled her. “You’re a fool, Sigyn,” Glut whispered in her ear. “I warned you about what would happen if you became too strong, but you refused my advice. Now look at what I’ve had to do. I like you, I really do, but this ludicrousness ends now. No prince should have to settle for lowborn sluts who have no history.”

“Glut … _please_ ….”

The pain swallowed her, and she tried to roll over, desperately trying to keep the blood inside her, pressing her hands to the huge claw marks marring her belly and doing her best not to scream. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her shoulders shook with repressed sobs as the pain ate at her, spilling in her like fire. Her vision was spotted with black, and she barely heard the renewed cries of the crowd. The ice cracked as something heavy landed on it, and Glut rose briskly.

“Move.”

“Your Highness—”

“I said, move.”

“I did this for you, for  _you_. She was weak, and it has been proven.”

“ _Move!_ ”

Surprisingly gentle hands turned her onto her back, and Sigyn whimpered in pain. Her hands were forced away, and firm fingers rested on her belly. A new pain ate at her skin, and she screamed, cringing and moaning, but the hands did not move. And then the pain began to abate, seeping away like poison drawn from a wound. Sigyn’s breathing eased at once. Only when the pain was gone did she open her eyes—

—and right above her was none other than Loki-Prince. He wasn’t looking to her face, but instead concentrating on her stomach. His lips moved as he muttered spells, spells that felt warm and tender as they pulled her flesh back together.

Sigyn licked her dry lips. “Loki-Prince …?”

Loki’s voice died, and eyes snapped to hers, tensing at once. His claws pricked her skin as his fingers twitched. One heartbeat passed … two. And then, without so much as a hint of warning, he stood and walked briskly from the arena.


	18. Chapter Fifteen - This Worthless Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

Loki hated how he had run to the she-jötunn. He hated how she had piqued his interest, hated how he had been so lenient with her when she had spoken out against him, and hated the lurch of panic that had overtaken his mind when he saw her blood painting the colosseum floor. He ignored the dull throb of the scrapes on his own arms Býleistr had given him trying to hold him back. He’d broken free of his grip though, running to and vaulting over the balustrade of the royal box, landing hard enough in the arena to crack the ice badly. That was one thing he noticed yet again — the jötunn body moved smoothly, gracefully even, and the strength it possessed was remarkable.

He walked through the bowels of the colosseum with no sense of direction, shouldering past a jötunn as he rounded a corner.

“Loki-Prince!”

He walked faster, turning blindly through the corridors in an attempt to lose Glut. She was running after him, calling for him, and Loki couldn’t get away from her fast enough.

He had barely started drawing on his magic to cast a spell of concealment when she was right behind him. “My prince—”

Loki’s already frayed temper snapped. He rounded on Glut and slammed her to the wall by both shoulders, and she yelped in pain. Loki exposed his teeth, and, before he could assess what he was doing, roared into her face. The sound that came from his throat terrified him to some degree, put him in mind of the great dragons that roamed Niðavellir’s plains, but his pleasure at seeing Glut cringe and shy away was too satisfactory.

“Your Highness,” she whispered, “I—”

“You had no right to injure her as you did,” Loki spat.

“Highness please, it was no different from Gnissa—” Loki’s grip tightened, and Glut fell silent at once.

Gnissa … she had to have been the she-jötunn from the night before.

“Her injuries were not life threatening, and Sigyn’s were,” Loki said slowly. “It was no accident on your part — it was a deliberate and calculated strike.”

“My prince?”

The incredulity in her voice enraged him all the more. “You think it coincidence that your claws managed to find their ways between her ribs?” he demanded. “I felt the gauges on her bones, and you opened her stomach! If she dies, your life will be forfeit, no? For killing her in a fight only meant to wound?”

Glut took a breath. “Highness, she is nothing. She is nothing but compassion, and compassion has no place in this realm; compassion is for the foolish. Prince, please.” Her hand moved to his wrist. She wasn’t trying to loosen his grip on her, not even encouraging it, but it was a solid reminder of how he held her. “I advise you from placing your heart on her. She is not strong enough, not fit to stand by your side.”

“And you?” Loki breathed, and his anger slipped into a realm of calmness held as tense as a wire in his mind. “You want to take the place you imagine her in? You think I am interested in some slip of a she-jötunn being my queen?”

“No, Highness,” Glut said quickly. Loki didn’t think he imagined there was some sliver of confidence returning to her voice. “It is wise of you not to be interested in her. She doesn’t care for you — she cares for what you can give her. She cares only for winning your heart, then your horns.”

“Are these your wishes too?” he asked.

“These … these are traditional wishes. Culturally logical,” Glut said in such a low voice Loki could barely hear her. “Jötunheimr is a realm in which its people follow strength, and those who are strongest wear their horns as a symbol of their greatness. And everyone wants to be the one who is strongest of all….” Glut’s other hand ghosted along the line of his spine, tracing it up and down with her very fingertips. It took everything in Loki not to react.

“You are a participant,” Loki continued. “It wouldn’t therefore be unreasonable to think that you were after my horns too.” He caged her in with his body. “You would win me, and then you would manipulate me to suit your own ends.”

“Is that not what the game of power is?” she replied, and she was so close to him Loki felt the breath of her words on his lips. But then she moved past his face, resting her chin on his shoulder as her hand climbed higher up his back, the touch becoming firmer too. “Manipulation for the betterment of yourself?” It was a soft seduction.

“You want me,” Loki said, body utterly still and poised. “You want to show me your strength and once my loyal won because of it, you would win the loyalty of my heart too.” He leant closer to her, teeth nearly grazing her ear. “You bitch,” he whispered. “You think I would ever have you? Love you?”

The spell broke. Glut froze, and she pulled back at once, face twisted into something ugly. “I do not need your love,” she said, and it didn’t escape Loki’s notice the disrespectful edge her words had taken. “No, _you_ need _my_ strength, just as the rulers of Jötunheimr have always needed it. Do you think your sire coupled with your dam for love? That Býleistr-Prince and Grýla-Lady did so for mutual attraction? It was for duty’s sake. To produce the strongest offspring.”

“If that is so, then there would be no want on your part to couple with a degenerate,” Loki said flatly.

“I would need only your position to, as you said, _manipulate_ myself into power.” She lifted her lip. “If our words are to become blunt and brazen, then I would use you to climb the political ladder and battle your brothers for the throne once your sire dead and your dam indisposed.”

“I gave you no permission for brazen words, and I never will. You will watch your tongue around me, _frost giantess_. Be assured to next time you speak to me so again, I will render you as mute as Hrimgerd. You damn yourself with your words. With your threats.”

“My _logic_ damns me? You need me,” Glut said. “For your image. You sabotage yourself in the realm’s eyes by showing even the faintest acknowledgement of her existence. Choke on your love, Highness. Even if you felt something for her, it is something doomed because she is shameful. She is some compassionate lowborn. The scandal of being with her would end you.”

But Glut’s words had cracked the mystery as to why Loki had save the she-jötunn. She — _Sigyn_ — wasn’t pushing herself onto him. She wasn’t ready to _kill_ anyone just for him. She was one of the only things in this realm that didn’t act barbaric when not needed, who didn’t try to manipulate him for her own means, who was always on the edge of his thoughts and patiently waiting unlike so many others who pushed themselves onto him. She was trying so hard to be more like her cohorts and building a wall Loki could so easily see through to show him someone who was … gentle. Something he craved in this harsh world. From someone who wasn’t a newfound relative. Someone who was as far as possible from the savage frost giants he’d grown up hearing about. And he couldn’t let go of the single shred of normalcy in this Norns forsaken realm.

 _“Glut—”_ she had said, and it was the betrayal he identified with the most — the crushing despair that had crossed her features. Oh, he knew _just_ how she had felt in that moment.

“Choke on your traditions, _my lady_ ,” Loki threw back at her. “I would take her a thousand times before I took you even once, in love or hate or indifference. I am my own master.”

Then Glut turned her last card in: desperate honesty. “Your Highness, I implore you; it is not wise for you to place your heart on her. Her House has nothing behind it — no history. You would be ridiculed.”

“ _Silence._ ” His horns brushed Glut’s brow. “I _order_ you to leave, and by the Norns if you ever show your face to me again, if you try to influence anything or anyone else around me, I’ll kill you, is that clear?”

Glut’s eyes were hard. “Yes, _P_ _rince_.”

“My prince!”

Four guards ran up to them, icy weapons forming on their arms, and they paused at the sight of the two of them so close to each other. Loki stepped back at once, lip still lifted. He turned to address the captain of the guards, and she stood rigid and straight-backed at once.

“Escort the Fornjótsdóttir from Útgarðar; I want her gone _now_.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Loki didn’t blink as he watched Glut march stiff-shouldered along the corridor within the company of the guards. He spat on the floor before whirling on his heel and walking away, wrestling with the confusion in his heart and the infuriating amount of emotion he had there.

He wasn’t just fucking himself over politically with this — because Glut was right: pursuing Sigyn even purely for the sake of spiting his blood kin was a sure-fire way to stir the pot — but he had saved a jötunn life. He had saved a _jötunn life_.

What was _wrong_ with him?

He wished he had gone with Thor. He wished that the _hólmgangar_ weren’t happening. Wished and wished and _wished_ he were trueborn Æsir. He punched the wall as hard as he could, his bitter snarl echoing through the corridors. The hate that thrummed along his nerves, that pure, unbridled hate towards Laufey, Fárbauti, Odin — and _himself_ — was overpowering. He leant against the wall, quivering.

Who knew what this would lead to? He had saved a jötunn life, had felt mercy towards one of the monsters that had torn his soul to shreds … he was slipping, falling, _losing himself._

But Loki hissed under his breath. He was being a fool. Sigyn was _one_ she-jötunn. Showing _one_ jötunn mercy was nothing. _One_ she-jötunn would hold no sway over him. He had not let Glut sway him.

And so he would not let Sigyn.

* * *

#

* * *

The castle was rife with talk by the time Loki finally turned back. The first thing he did when he returned was slip to the pantries; it had been at the eventide meal he had last eaten, and starving himself wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Just as he was piling a plate high with the best cuts of meat he could find, a servant came in.

She stopped at the sight of him. “Your Highness,” she said, bowing her head.

Loki grunted as he turned around and left, snatching up a flask of wine that was being taken out of the kitchens by another servant — he damn well deserved some kind of alcohol, even if the quality was disgraceful. No one dared to do anything other than bow their heads towards him as he stalked towards the royal wing of the castle, but Loki could imagine the whispers that followed in his wake. The best thing he could do, he thought, was to ignore them all and act normal. Well, act as he usually did in this realm of beasts.

He pushed the door to his chambers open with his shoulder and threw his plate onto the table. He sat heavily on the bed, bringing the flask up to his lips and gulping the contents down. The wine was so watered down it was frustrating in the extreme, but he was just glad for something after having almost nothing for two and a half months, the eisbock aside. It drank like water, anyway.

Laufey’s footsteps were so loud he didn’t so much as flinch when the doors banged open against the wall. Loki merely finished the wine as Laufey stormed to the bed, towering over him as he dropped the flask on the floor.

“Laufey-King,” Loki muttered, refusing to look up at him.

“Do you realise what you’ve done?” Laufey demanded.

“There’s no use raging at me,” Loki said, calm. “It’s done, and nothing can change that. If you want to reverse what I’ve done to fix her, go and beat her bloody all you like, but it’s still not going to change the fact that I saved her life in front of so many.”

“You embarrassed her,” Laufey snapped. “Embarrassed her House!”

“I embarrassed her by saving her life?” Loki said incredulously, standing up and spinning to face the king. “I don’t know about what you frost giants think, but the Æsir would be grateful I did such a thing.”

“It may have escaped your notice,” Laufey growled, “but this is _not_ Asgard, and their traditions have no place here.”

Loki wasn’t going to have this fight again. He was sick of being lectured. “That’s going to be a problem then,” he said, “because such things are integrated into my behaviour, and many of those things aren’t so easily changed.”

“Well then, let me teach you a lesson, _son_ ,” Laufey said. “You granted her mercy, and mercy is granted to those who inspire pity — weakness.”

“So you would have had her die for _pride_?”

“It would have been better for everyone if she had. Mercy is not revered here. This realm is harsh, and those who bend to this world break and die.”

“Tell me, then,” Loki breathed, “has this mentality always been in place, or was this a recent development after the Casket was taken by the Allfather?”

Laufey hit him hard across the face. The blow was hard enough to send Loki stumbling back into the wall, and his hand went to his cheek as he bit back a cry of pain. His flesh was stinging, but Loki smiled, triumph glinting in his eyes. He needed the reassurance that Laufey was a monster, to stop him sliding into the terrifying sentimentality he had shown to Helblindi and Sigyn. And this was _perfect_.

“You think to play me, boy?” Laufey breathed. “I won’t play your game. Perhaps you would like to tell me why you saved Sigyn Bláinsdóttir tonight?”

“You think I did it for _her_ benefit?” Loki cackled, pushing himself back to his feet. “I did it for _you_ , for _spite_.”

That was one lie he could easily get away with.

“Then I must say, it is a great coincidence that this girl was the same girl you let slide when she raised her voice to you. Why not save Gnissa Eldsdóttir instead?”

Loki’s stared at Laufey poisonously as he struggled to find an answer that wouldn’t lose him his position. As the silence continued on, Loki leered at the king to cover himself. “I may be jötunn, but I’m not a monster,” he said finally. “I won’t have someone — _anything_ — die for my hand brought about by barbarian customs.”

Laufey looked him up and down once before he chuckled, and then left without another word.

Loki spat at the closed door and stalked to the table, tearing at the meal with a viciousness that felt like a fraction of the storm raging in his mind. He’d lost that battle, and he grit his teeth in frustration. “Damn me,” he hissed. “Damn you all.”

* * *

#

* * *

“And why should I do that?”

Four nights had passed since the _hólmganga_ ; four tedious nights Loki had avoided the royal family and their associates, and so he had sought out Angrboða’s company instead. They had met tonight where they had first spoken to each other at the celebrations — tucked away at the far corner of the feasting hall’s outside balcony where they wouldn’t dare to be disturbed.

“Manners, for one,” Angrboða said, leaning back against the balustrade, “and you’ve left the incident rather open, have you not? Saving her life and then vanishing without so much as a word. The matter needs to be closed.”

They were valid points, Loki had to concede, but there was a very simple reason that he hadn’t done anything about seeing Sigyn — Laufey. Loki didn’t want to give the king any sort of satisfaction in regards to Sigyn, and talking to her would be one of them. To prove his point of aloofness towards her, he’d have to sever all sorts of contact with her. Pride locked him into a stalemate.

 _I may as well have let her die_ , he thought amusedly, scratching the ice off the rock wall he stood next to.

“Honestly,” Angrboða said, “all it needs to be is a two minute conversation that consists of, ‘Are you well?’, ‘Yes, Your Highness,’ ‘Now leave.’ Or is it that vanity of yours that much of an issue?”

“Ange, leave it alone,” Loki sighed.

“But haven’t you had enough of running? First the celebrations, then the Skógarmaðrfit, now this—”

“I said, leave it.”

Angrboða crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Loki, your reputation isn’t exactly sparkling,” she started, “and you refused to go back to Asgard with Thor, so that sends me the clear message of that you’re going to be staying here a while. From what I’ve seen and heard from around the castle, you’re an insolent brat.”

“Well, don’t sugar coat it,” Loki muttered.

Angrboða merely blinked her incomprehension at the phrase.

Loki waved it away. “Never mind.”

“You need to fix it,” Angrboða said after a few seconds of silence. “You’re here now, for good, and this isn’t a forever that’s going away. You need to build your bridges, Loki, otherwise your bitterness will destroy you — it’s already started to.”

“Oh, I wonder why?” he bit at her. “Do you know what started all of this? It was a quip — a tiny, little quip that had my brother storming to Bifröst and demanding Heimdallr to send us here. ‘You’d have to disobey Father to protect the realm,’ I said, and who’s paying for his hurt pride? Me. You know what he said to me? He wanted to take me back to Asgard so everything could have gone back to the way it had been before. It was all about him, and I was the afterthought. He threatened to knock me unconscious to take me back to Asgard.”

“Just how bitter are you, exactly?”

Loki snorted. “You have no idea.” He felt bitter towards her too, felt as if he was screaming his lungs out and no one was listening — he felt so _alone_.

“Talk to Sigyn,” Angrboða said. “She’s another thing which adds to that storm inside you, and giving this incident closure will help ease that pressure.”

“Or it could not,” Loki muttered. “I’d be giving in.”

“Giving in to what?”

“Benevolence. Towards monsters.”

“You really think we’re monsters?” Angrboða said incredulously.

“Well forgive me for seeing the jötnar as such after I’ve been told for a thousand years that this is a realm of savages.”

“Oh?” Angrboða laughed. “Let me tell you something in return, _Y_ _our Highness_. The jötnar may have been the villains of your stories, but who were the villains in ours? The Æsir. And who are you? An ás in jötunn skin, essentially, and yet do I treat you like a villain?”

“I am one person,” Loki said defensively. “And if you were an ásynja? If you were taken to Asgard and made their princess?”

“I have said it before and I shall say it again: I would try. Being an insolent brat is going to destroy you. Talk to Sigyn — it will help.”

He knew she was right, but he didn’t want to acknowledge that fact. He had two people he could even begin to consider as friends: Angrboða and Helblindi, and that number was woefully small when it came down to it. Helblindi was still nothing more than a child, and Angrboða’s home was on the other side of the continent. She wouldn’t stay in Útgarðar forever, and he’d be left to fend for himself. As much as he despised it, he needed others.

He pushed himself off the wall and went back inside.

“Loki,” Angrboða called.

He ignored her. He didn’t need any more of her sentiment.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki sent the note to Sigyn before he could rationalise his actions. It was short and sharp:  
_  
_

_Come to the solar at dawn — alone._

_  
_ After sending it off, he sat with his head in his hands, biting his lip and desperately trying to keep his mind in a blank state lest he send another servant to intercept the note before it could reach its destination.

When the sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, Loki stood and crossed to the dressing chamber. He shifted to his jötunn skin at the last possible second, keeping his back to the obsidian mirror as he dressed himself in some of the finer clothes. The freshly polished mail on his _kjilt_ flashed in the low light as he flipped open the box containing the gold bands for his horns. He slid them on gracelessly before smoothing his hair back with a quick spell and plucking a hvítr stick to whiten his teeth from the pot he had jammed several in. He chewed on it hurriedly as he pulled the wolf’s head pebble over his head. Double-checking the straps holding everything in place, he stomped to the doors of his chambers and left for the solar quickly. It was a short walk from the main sleeping quarters, merely a flight of stairs away that curved around the wall before they opened up to the solar. Loki paused at the bottom, daring to quickly look around and into the room.

It was empty, and he resigned to seat himself on the stairs as he waited for Sigyn to come; he wouldn’t go in first, lest he seem too eager. No, this was nothing more than a quick meeting to assert she was healthy again. It would not do for someone of his station to be waiting on a girl he had no relation with. She could wait for him.

He had been sitting there a few minutes when he heard the door open. Soft footsteps — footsteps that were so light they had to be female — echoed around the room. Loki breathed a concealment spell over himself as he stood and entered the room.

The solar was a wide and open space, with an arching roof and decorated with lavish furs, plentiful amounts of furniture, and artwork carved into the walls in the jötunn fashion. A table in the centre of the room held a bowl full of green leaves that reminded Loki of mint — they were a particular favourite of Helblindi’s and incredibly sweet when chewed. Windows set into the west wall looked out upon Útgarðar. Sigyn was standing in front of them, looking onto the city below. She was dressed very simply — fine furs that hung to her knees, her hair tied in a loose plait, and a choker of gold around her neck. Bandages covered her left leg. She wrung her hands together as she glanced around the room, biting her lower lip as her eyes shifted almost hesitantly from corner to corner.

Loki merely watched her as her nervousness seemed to build, and he took pity on her when she turned back to the windows.

Loki lifted the spell before he said, “Lady Bláinsdóttir.”

“Your Highness,” Sigyn said quickly, whirling around and dropping into a bow. “Forgive me, I … I did not hear you.”

Loki snorted. “Rise.”

Sigyn straightened up, and Loki walked past her to look out the window in turn. Útgarðar was a dark shadow beneath him, covered in rubble and ruin and snow. He turned his shoulder to Sigyn, enough away that any sense of hospitality was absent, but not enough to dismiss her from his sight.

Loki gestured to the sweet leaves. “Have some; I insist.”

Sigyn nodded and stepped forward. She was limping, Loki saw, and so he said, “Sit.”

Sigyn took a small leaf from the tray and sat down heavily on one of the couches. Loki didn’t miss the flash of relief that came to her face as the weight was taken off her leg.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Loki nodded. “How are your injuries?”

“Healing,” said Sigyn, twirling the leaf between her fingers. “The _goðar_ have said I will make a full recovery soon enough, but the scars will remain.”

Loki settled for another nod. Norns, this politeness was infuriating; he hated the idea of playing the gentleman to a she-jötunn. But his and Angrboða’s earlier talk was still ringing in his ears.

“I must thank you for saving my life, Your Highness,” Sigyn continued. “I hold it dear, and I would hate to lose it.”

“Yes,” Loki said curtly. He flicked his eyes to her and said, “I heard someone shouting your name from the crowds — a family member?”

“My sister,” Sigyn said. “Skaerir.”

Loki felt a deep pang in his heart, and he wished at once he hadn’t asked her who that shout had belonged to. “She must love you dearly to have shouted like that.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Sigyn’s mouth. “Yes. She’s blunt and harsh, but I cannot wish for a better sister.”

_Like Thor…._

Loki tilted his head to the side, scrutinising her. He narrowed his eyes as he ventured, “You’re very lucky to have siblings such as that.”

“Yes.”

Loki thought, _You certainly do have a brain in there. No boasting — just a simple statement of fact._ She knew he had steered the conversation onto dangerous ground — there was no doubt in his mind the castle knew of his precarious relationship with his brothers by blood, especially Býleistr, not to mention the blow he had received regarding the loss of Thor — and as such, Sigyn had given him little room to twist her words. But Loki was frustrated as well; she had been bold to speak out to him when he had been officially presented to the she-jötnar, but now it was nowhere to be found.

And so he pressed on — he was too curious to leave it alone. “You were close to Glut, were you not?”

Sigyn nodded, but said nothing.

“Are _hólmgangar_ so mindless that they encourage betrayal of friends to those extremes?”

“There is method to Glut’s thinking, Your Highness,” Sigyn said. There it was: that assessment of his question. There was no simple yes or no answer this time — an explanation. “I posed a threat because of who I am: lowborn nobility. I am not supposed to have advanced as far as I have in regards to the _hólmgangar_ because all I am is a prop to show the strength of the higher nobility, something to show how easily they fell their opponents. Such was the shock when I began to win all of my _hólmgangar_ until this latest one. I needed to be removed, lest I do the damage the high nobility feared.”

“Catching my attention.”

Sigyn inclined her head. “Yes. The higher Houses are steeped in tradition, as it has always been one amongst their ranks to win the hearts of the royal family. They are the strongest of the jötnar, and some think it is their given birthright to intermingle with the royal family and provide themselves as the only choices of mates. Only they are worthy of mixing their blood with yours, not some lesser noble like myself.” A bitterness crept into her tone, and Loki was extremely pleased by it. “It is a system so in place there are few who believe someone will be able to change it. I believed that before my _hólmgangar_ , but it got too out of hand for me to deal with. I felt giddy at first, excited and so hopeful I could win, but after the _hólmgangar_ started to get more and more violent, it felt like I was drowning.”

“And so you therefore sought Glut’s help.”

Sigyn nodded somewhat meekly. “She was the one to propose the idea.”

“So why did you accept?”

“Because I knew in my heart I wouldn’t win,” Sigyn whispered. “The strongest contenders have a penchant for winning the attention of the royal family, and I am not the strongest. There was a lot of hatred towards me because I was breaking the social conventions, and every night I stayed I was putting myself into even graver danger, but I couldn’t leave without losing in _hólmganga_ because of the shame I would not only bring to myself, but to my family. I thought Glut was my friend, and so she persuaded me to leave. She said she would defeat me in _hólmganga_ so I could take my exit gracefully, but …” She trailed off into silence and bit her lip, twisting her hands in her lap. “Her methods were more forceful than she had led me to believe. I was a fool, and I do not mean to fall for the same tricks again.”

Loki could see the trap she had set up with her words. Persuaded — a deliberate use of the word to entice him to bite. He thought to humour her by walking into her trap. “Explain to me what you mean by ‘she persuaded you’.”

“I was stubborn; I didn’t want to give up in my goal of winning,” Sigyn said, “but Glut told me that no matter how hard I tried, all I would receive for my effort was pain. I would be hurt physically and emotionally in trying to achieve my dream. She reasoned that I would be hurt emotionally because …”

Loki frowned. “Go on.”

She took a breath. “She reasoned that we all would be hurt because no matter how hard we tried, no matter who won, you would not care. If it is not to bold to ask, Your Highness — why did you save me?”

“That,” Loki growled, “ _is_ too bold.”

“My apologies,” Sigyn said quickly. She bowed her head, and Loki took the opportunity to relax a little. She really was just a girl. Very young.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“I am twenty-five years your junior, Your Highness.”

“And you’re still fighting?”

“Why would I not?”

“A thousand and twenty years is far too young for you to throw your life away, Lady Bláinsdóttir.”

“Lives are thrown away by those my age every night, my prince,” she said. “My gratitude to you for saving my life is great.”

“Are you not insulted that I showed you mercy?” he asked.

“I … I am more surprised than anything, Your Highness,” Sigyn said. “I thought I was to die, but I did not. I am unsure what to think. I want to live, and you have given that to me, but I must ask why.”

“And, as I have told you: that is my business and my business alone.”

“I understand, Your Highness.”

“Good.”

“Your Highness,” Sigyn breathed. “If I may say, I thank you for calling me here this dawn.”

_She really does not know how to hold her tongue, does she?_

“Explain.”

“The stories I have heard about you, my prince … well, they paint to you to be a cold-hearted ás,” she said in so low a voice Loki had to strain to hear the words, “and cold-hearted Æsir do not bother with these meetings.”

“The Æsir aren’t cold-hearted,” Loki said. “They are … different, is all.”

He stood. “Lady Bláinsdóttir, my actions were rash and as a result of them, I have placed you in danger. I apologise for this. For compensation to the damage I have done and for your safety, you shall have separate chambers prepared for your use commencing today.”

Sigyn’s eyes widened. “Please, Your Highness, that is not necessary—”

“It is,” Loki said. “I assume I would be correct in thinking that my actions have been interpreted amongst the other women that you are starting to gain my favour?”

A nod.

“Well then. I would not have my efforts undone because you did not accept my offer.”

“I— … I thank you, Your Highness.”

“Then good day, Lady Bláinsdóttir; you may leave.”

She stood and bowed deeply before she turned and left.

“And understand,” he said as she opened the door, “that this meeting was nothing more than a brief exchange of words. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Loki didn’t move until the doors had closed behind her, then he sighed, sitting forward and lacing his fingers together. His eyes fell to where Sigyn had been sitting, and he reached forward to the sweet leaf she had dropped by accident. He rolled it between his fingers before standing up and throwing it out of the window.

Just what had he been thinking? Inviting her to stay even closer to him?

 _You’re slipping, you fool. Only a matter of time until it’s too late,_ a snide voice said. _They’re corrupting you._

Loki hissed under his breath as he climbed the stairs, his claws digging into the wall as he leant against it heavily. He was a fool he was a fool he was a _fool_.

_Damn you all._


	19. Chapter Sixteen - Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

Three weeks after Thor’s whipping, there came a knock upon his chamber doors in the dead of night. Thor sat up, blinking groggily as he cursed whoever saw it fit to wake him at such a time as this. He untangled the furs from around his legs and crossed the room. He opened the door somewhat irritably, expecting to find a servant delivering a request from one of his parents, but he was surprised to find his mother standing in the atrium of his chambers.

He blinked. “Mother?”

She nodded, hands clasped in front of her. “Get dressed, Thor.”

“Why? What has happened?” Thor asked sharply.

“Your father has fallen into the Sleep,” she replied. “I will be waiting.”

Thor nodded, swallowing thickly. “Of course, Mother.”

Five minutes later, he emerged from his chambers wearing fresh garments of soft leathers and cloths, combing his fingers through his mussed hair. Frigga wordlessly turned and led the way.

Valaskjalf was disturbingly quiet in the dead of night, empty of the sounds of rushing servants and chattering people. Only the summer bugs gave background noise. Their footsteps echoed along the corridors as the stone flagstones gave away to metal plates. Four Einherjar stood at the end of the corridor leading to the royal apartments, their spears crossed over the doors to the conveyor that would take him to the top of the palace.

“My prince,” the captain said as his men uncrossed their spears. “Lady Queen.”

The doors slid open silently and Thor strode in, closely followed by Frigga. When the doors shut, Thor’s eyes closed, and he leant against the far wall, his head in his free hand.

“Oh Thor,” Frigga said, cupping his cheek with a small smile. “What is it, my love?”

“The kingship is hardly a small thing to be thrust upon you in the dead of night,” Thor chuckled at an attempt at humour. “I have not much been thinking of it over the past three months.

“Of course,” said Frigga, her sad smile widening as the conveyor slid to a halt. The doors opened, and Thor pushed himself off the wall, rearranging his expression as he marched to the end of the corridor. Six of the Kingsguard stood outside one of the five doors. Thor strode to them, and they moved out of the way at once. Two opened the heavy doors, and Thor entered.

The air was heavy with magic, and it made the hair on Thor’s arms stand on end. In the centre of the golden room was Odin’s bed, specially catered to assist with the Sleep. A canopy of magic encased it — a shimmering net that caught the dust specks in its light. And in its centre, covered in furs and linens, was his father. His face was relaxed in his sleep, and the only sign of life was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Your Highness,” Eir said as she straightened up from next to Odin.

Thor gave a short smile as Eir gave a curtsey towards first him and then his mother. “My queen.”

“How is he?” Frigga asked as she drew up beside the bed.

Eir sighed heavily. “His sleep is very deep — I have never seen him like this.”

“How is this sleep different?” Thor murmured, stepping next to his mother.

“Your father is suffering; wielding the Second Sight is a heavy burden,” Frigga said, pulling Thor’s hand into her own. “Despite what he has done, he mourns as deeply as you and I both for your brother.”

“But—”

“You doubt my words?” Frigga asked, quirking her eyebrow. “How many times must I tell you before you believe me?”

“Because you say these things, and yet he does nothing,” Thor hissed. “He didn’t even try to contact Jötunheimr for some sort of negotiation.”

Eir, who could see that she was intruding on something, said, “Please, excuse me.” She curtsied once more before turning to leave.

Frigga spoke when the door clicked shut behind the healer. “Laufey would not take kindly to any sort of negotiation, and such things would end in ruins.”

Thor froze. If he were to be king … roadblocks were suddenly lifted. He could take further action against Jötunheimr.

“Thor, I know what you’re thinking,” Frigga said swiftly.

“I am not Father,” he said. “I will not subjugate myself to the will of the jötnar.”

“Thor, listen—”

“He’s my brother!” Thor exclaimed.

“Thor, there is more reason than that as to why your father did nothing,” Frigga said. “Listen, and if you interrupt, I would remind you whilst you may soon be the King of Asgard, I am still your mother, and you are still young enough to make foolhardy mistakes — listen to me.”

“But I—”

“Thor, enough.”

Thor closed his mouth. Frigga cupped his face and sat him down next to the bed.

“Thor, do you remember what I told you about your brother? What your father said?”

Thor nodded gruffly.

“As much as it pains me to say it, Loki is very much like Laufey; too much like him, in fact. The both of them are stubborn and proud. When you told me of what Loki said to you upon Jötunheimr, I must say that I take his side in this matter.”

“Mother—”

“This has always been a matter of politics, Thor,” Frigga said sharply. “Jötunheimr is still hurting from your assault, and Laufey is far too angry to properly reason with. Sending diplomats there could end in death and disaster. His subjects may be dead and buried, but removing Loki at the end of the war was a grave insult to him.”

“Then why did Father do it in the first place?” Thor asked.

“He was small,” whispered Frigga bitterly, gripping his hands tighter as her shoulders slumped. “Your father told me of how he found him. He was alone, crying, and he was so small for a frost giant. Your father thought him a runt, left to die out of shame.”

Thor gave a choke of a laugh; the Loki he had seen had been no runt of a jötunn. For the Norns’ sakes, he had _towered_ over Thor.

“There is no reason sufficient to sway my mind that we should not reason with Jötunheimr diplomatically.”

“Thor, these politics land closer to home as well,” Frigga said. “This lie has been carried out for far too long, and it is only hurting us now. Asgard is furious with Loki’s death, and they demand revenge on Jötunheimr. An attempt at diplomacy would cause upset, and your motives will no doubt be questioned. If the truth is found out, then we put ourselves in danger. Chaos will rule the realms, Thor: the Allfather told a lie for over a thousand years about his family, so it would then lead to the questioning of what else has been lied about in his reign. It is too dangerous.”

Thor said, “I will not be subjected to Father’s fears when it comes to justice. I will suffer the hate of the people if I have to, but I refuse to write Loki off as if he were a political mistake. If I have to weather the hate between the Æsir and the jötnar, or even the hate of all the creatures in the realms to see him safe, then so be it.”

_But for Loki. Only for Loki. Laufey and the other monsters can rot for all I care._

“Think of Loki,” Frigga said urgently. “The truth of what happened will be found out, and many do not share ours views on him — don’t you even try to deny it. Loki will be in danger also if the truth is discovered. Odin’s House giving sanctuary to a frost giant, no less a son of Laufey’s line, will not settle well with the people.

“Thor, this lie has spiralled out of control, and now we must lie more, but this time by omission.”

Thor pulled his hand from his mother’s, and he shook his head. “I cannot leave him to his fate. I just can’t. I will slaughter each and every member of that vile race if it means Loki will be by my side once more.”

“The jötnar are not vil—”

“I have not seen any evidence of that!” Thor snapped. “If we try for diplomacy, then we could at least convince them to see that Loki is an ás, no matter his blood, and by keeping him close they are putting themselves in danger. They would be stupid enough to fall for it, anyhow.”

Frigga was rigid. “Thor—”

“Loki is Æsir,” Thor repeated. “He has no blood with those monsters. You did not see him. Mother, he asked me to _kill him_. I have to fix this; I have to get him back.”

The doors opened, and Athalrádr came in. He bowed deeply, and said, “The council awaits, my prince.”

“Thank you, Athalrádr,” Frigga said. Her voice was tight.

As Thor stood, Frigga grabbed his wrist. “Thor, I implore you to _think_. The council will push for action against Jötunheimr, and I am _begging_ you to not act on your emotions.”

Thor said nothing as Frigga’s fingers slackened. He rolled his shoulders, and followed Athalrádr out of the room.

* * *

#

* * *

Thor could not help but fidget under the table. The studs adorning the pteruges on his formal attire would be loose enough to slide out by the end of this meeting if he continued to twist them as he was. He felt like a piece of driftwood battered from all sides by rough waves, and the only thing he could coherently repeat over and over in his head was, _Loki’s the politician._ This aspect had always slipped his mind in his daydreams of ruling — the shackles the crown would bring.

“… inform Vanaheimr and Álfheimr of the situation at once,” Forseti was saying. The elder council was comprised of the eight highest ranked men of law and politics in the realm, and the head of their number was Forseti. Justice was the breath of life in his lungs, and his political counsel had always been highly valued by the Allfather. He was surprisingly young to be the highest member of the elder council, being middle aged where the others were much older. His blond hair was laced with some strands of grey, but his intelligence regarding law, politics, and general commerce was without equal. “I have also spoken to Eir regarding the Allfather’s current Sleep, and from what I have been told, we cannot determine how long it will last.”

Eight pairs of eyes turned to Thor, and he nodded in confirmation.

“Very well then. An announcement will also be made to the realm in the morning, as well as the official crowning come dusk,” Forseti continued. He gave Thor a small smile. “I am sorry to say, Your Highness, that you won’t be getting much sleep tonight.”

“I would be a poor king indeed if I could not handle one night without sleep,” Thor said with a laugh.

Vidar leant forward and placed his forearms on the table. Councilman Vidar Thor knew mostly from reputation. He had a vicious temper, it was said, and his patience was short. Grizzled and battle-scared, Vidar had been an awe-inspiring presence for Thor when he had been a child. “Granted, all these matters in regards to the commencement of your rule are indeed important,” he said, “but we must also discuss broader topics, my king. Jötunheimr, namely.”

The room tensed at once.

The hand Thor had placed on the tabletop tightened in a fist. “What about Jötunheimr, councilman?” he asked.

“The Allfather was quite, well, _adamant_ in the fact that Jötunheimr was to be left undisturbed,” Vidar said. “The realm has been closed, but that is all. But after your brother’s … passing, ignoring the realm is hardly the fit thing to do. Your Highness, we cannot leave this any further.”

Thor wanted nothing more than to agree with them and fit to their mould, but he was smarter than to just blindly declare war. That had not worked last time. “Loki was dear to us,” Thor started, “and surely my father has his reasons for his disinterest in Laufey.”

“But you do not,” Vidar said. “Your recent journey to the realm would suggest so.”

Thor swallowed. “And what would you have me do about Jötunheimr?” he said gruffly, fixing his eyes on Vidar. “We can hardly annihilate the realm; Jötunheimr’s standing is central to the structure of Yggdrasil.”

“I never—”

“Was I then wrong to assume that was what you were implying — exterminating them?”

Vidar bristled. “The death of one of Asgard’s princes cannot go ignored,” he said, his patience strained. “It is unacceptable. Already the news has spread amongst the realms of Prince Loki’s death, and what do you think would happen when it is found out that Asgard has done nothing except impose a total embargo of traffic to the realm? The peace will be shattered, the throne challenged, and many men — good men — will die in the resultant war for the throne because we were lax. We must keep our power, and to do that, we cannot ignore Jötunheimr. We must take revenge.”

“So your proposed solution would be to direct our men to die?” Thor asked, incredulous. “To be slaughtered by monsters in order to preserve a reputation?” He took a shaking breath. “I am angry, I am so angry at what has happened, but this is a situation that must be handled with more grace than that. Yes, our tempers and our pride may be soothed if we were to attack, but slaughtering a broken people would not achieve anything but that — death to balm our hurt.”

“But we can hardly stay silent,” Councilman Kvasir said. He was one of the most politically astute men Thor had ever met. A patient individual, he was often the voice of reason within many of the meetings Thor had sat in on when learning of his kingly duties with his father.

Kvasir inclined his head to Thor and continued, “Your Highness, I have been advising your father for weeks now to at least make contact with Jötunheimr, but as it has already been said, your father has been unwilling to. We have to be smart about this. Action _must_ be taken if we are to preserve our reputation, and empires fall when reputations crack. The line of Búri has established one of the greatest dynasties the Nine Realms has ever seen, and I would despair that it would collapse because of this negligence. We cannot remain idle, Your Highness. Action must be taken, even if that action is merely for negotiations to be called.”

Frigga’s warning words were loud whispers in his mind, and Thor, putting aside the part of him that longed to agree with the councilmen and take up arms against Jötunheimr, said, “As I said, this is not something that I can make a decision about so soon.” Casting for a chance to get away from the current talk, he said, “I want to know what is happening here and in the other realms, and I will act accordingly. How has Vanaheimr perceived the situation?” He cursed himself; he should have asked about something further away from Jötunheimr.

“Ambassador Horrik has reported that Queen Sígrítha’s court has also been in disruption,” Councilman Vor said, shuffling through the pile of parchment in front of him.

Well, it was too late to change the subject now. Thor went with it. “What of Álfheimr?”

“Álfheimr has sent their condolences, and Queen Gerðr and Prince Freyr have also sent a letter asking after the situation.”

“Right,” Thor muttered, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “What of the realms that are not our allies?”

“Midgardr is, of course, ignorant as always,” Councilman Hermódr said. “Queen Alflyse does not care for the situation, King Ivaldi has said nothing, and Surtr … well, we can guess of what he is thinking.”

“No contact?”

“No contact.”

“Let us hope that Múspelheimr continues to stay out of our way,” Thor muttered. “What of the other planets that are not a part of the Nine Realms?”

“Scattered as always,” Kvasir informed him. “But there have since been an increase of raids made on settlements at the further reaches of Yggdrasil.”

“I want patrols to be dispatched if any more trouble brews,” Thor said. He fixed his gaze on Vidar and said dryly, “They cannot begin to think that Asgard is becoming lax.”

Vidar dipped his head a little.

“Well, then,” Thor said, “what of the people of Asgard? I have heard … troubling rumours regarding their loyalty.”

“There has been unrest,” Councilman Lódurr said. “Your … punishment has fast become common knowledge.”

“I have heard the people have been dividing themselves into factions,” Thor pressed on. “Factions in support of either myself or my father. How true is this?”

Kvasir sighed. “I’m afraid that everything you have just said is the truth. Every day we receive vast quantities of letters of complaint from all over the realm, and people have been making appointments to see the king at an alarming rate lately.” Kvasir said in a low voice, “Asgard is hungry for blood, my king, and a solution needs to be presented _now_. I implore you, my prince, we must send at least send a delegate to Jötunheimr.”

All eyes turned to Thor and he straightened up at once.

“Kvasir,” he said finally, “draft a letter of negotiation to King Laufey, and bring it to me as soon as it is finished. I will send it to Jötunheimr when I have seen it as adequate.”

Vidar’s jaw dropped. “My king—”

“You would have Asgard swing so bluntly to satisfy your own views on the situation?” Thor snapped. “No. I killed dozens of frost giants in both of my recent journeys to the realm, and they … they have taken my brother’s life in return. Is that what you really want to reduce Asgard to? The realm of blunt tempers that jumps straight to Chaotic deeds without first trying for Order? It might have been so in the last decades of my grandfather’s rule after the fall of Svartalfheimr, but it has not been under my father’s, and nor will it be under mine.” He stood suddenly. “As much as I want to slay each of them single-handedly, I will look for negotiation first, and war second.”

It was buying time for Loki; buying time for Thor to figure out another plan—

“Y-yes, my prince,” Vidar said, bending his neck.

“As for how to satisfy the people,” Lódurr said, “when His Highness’ official crowning comes at dusk, it must be magnificent, and it must be grand so that it restores the faith of the people. Yes?”

“It is clever,” Councilman Óthr murmured. “Distraction.”

“It will only satisfy the masses for so long, though,” Councilman Seaxnéat said. “The people will remember their hurt pride, and no matter how hard we try, there will be rogues that figure out ways to travel to Jötunheimr.”

Thor’s jaw twitched. “I know that my father has made it near impossible to reach Jötunheimr. All of the old Ævaleysas have been closed, and patrols surrounding the realm have been upped. The black markets that were supplying to Jötunheimr too have been found and shut down.” He looked to Vor for confirmation.

Vor nodded. “Yes. From the recent reports, the last outside contact with Jötunheimr was from you, Your Highness. As such, all of the closed Ævaleysas leading to Jötunheimr have been double and then triple checked, and some have been outright collapsed. There has been no further contact made regarding Jötunheimr.”

“Good,” Thor said, nodding absently. Loki was safe from outside difficulties for now. “Good. What else must be gotten through now?”

* * *

#

* * *

Only the fire in the central pit illuminated the room. Shadows flickered along the walls and light glinted on the metal finishes. A single table sat by it with two chairs tucked underneath, a pitcher of wine and cups upon it. The sky through the window was dusky gold, the clouds shot through with pinks and purples. From the throne room beyond, voices drifted.

“You look regal, Thor,” Sif said, stepping in front of him and readjusting the clasps on his shoulders.

“And you look equally lovely,” he replied, cupping her cheek.

“You would call wearing armour looking lovely?” she laughed, stepping away.

Thor grinned, readjusting his vambraces. “As lovely as you ever do.”

“Why then, I thank you,” she said with an eyeroll.

“That is a new set, is it not?” Thor asked, gesturing to her armour.

Sif raised an eyebrow, surprised. “It is. And I thought men never noticed anything.”

“I can assure you, Sif, I notice many things,” Thor said. “I have noticed every time I have talked to you over the past decades that you wear the same perfume every day, or that when you smile, it’s always the left side of your mouth that moves first, and that this, I believe, is the first time I have seen you with your hair down for many weeks.”

Sif rolled her eyes. “Well then, I stand corrected. Except that I am wearing a different perfume this evening.” She tapped the hollow of her throat, inviting him to smell. Thor leant forward and inhaled, and indeed it was different; a flower which he didn’t know the name of.

She squirmed. “Your breath tickles.”

Thor chuckled before he moved his head up and kissed her. His mouth was gentle on hers, and she kissed him back eagerly. Their noses bumped together, and Thor laughed into the kiss, opening his mouth and slipping his tongue between her lips. She opened her mouth to him in return.

When they broke apart, Sif said, “Why in the realms have we not done that before?”

Thor shrugged. “I do not know, but with your permission, it’s something I hope to rectify.”

She kissed him again. Thor closed his eyes, concentrating on her and only her. His hands ran over her armour, frustrated that it hindered his access to the softness of her hips. Her hands were in his hair, fingers running through the strands and he laughed as they were caught in a tangle. Thor hissed a little in pain. His heart was thundering in his ears.

A messenger knocked upon and opened the door and said, “Your Highness, it is nearly time.”

Sif pulled away from his lips and made to depart, but Thor kept her at his side, murmuring in her ear, “Let them look.” He said to the servant, “Thank you. You are dismissed.” The servant bowed and left.

“Thor,” Sif said, low in warning. “That is easy for you to say, but I cannot. I have fought so hard to gain my current standing.”

“You have already proved yourself at be a great warrior,” Thor said. “You needn’t be so uptight. Sif, it will not do you any favours.”

“Hmph.” She extracted herself from Thor’s grip and crossed to the small table. She poured herself a half-goblet of wine and did the same for him, passing it across. He held it in salute to Sif.

“Let us hope we end the day without the heartbreak of the last,” he murmured before drinking the wine in two gulps. He blinked and shook his head, resting his knuckles on the table. “Loki should be here.”

“Thor, you should go,” Sif said. “The ceremony will start soon.”

He nodded and straightened up. Sif gave him another kiss before she left and closed the door gently behind her.

Thor waited a few minutes before he cast one more glance around and followed Sif out.

* * *

#

* * *

The atmosphere was hardly the same as it had been at his failed coronation. The ceremony held a sombre note. Athalrádr’s voice echoed throughout the throne room.

“His Royal Highness, Prince Thor Odinson, first born to the House of Odin, heir to the throne of Asgard, Prince of the Nine Realms.”

A cheer erupted through the hall, and it was for the second time Thor began his walk along the hall, through the ranks of the Kingsguard and towards the high throne — it sat empty and vacant. Instead, his mother and the elder council stood upon the dais, Gungnir in Frigga’s hands. Behind him on a plinth sat a crown of fresh oak leaves. He was not to hold the position of King of Asgard just yet, and the golden crown was to be placed upon his head on a different day. He was to be regent king.

Thor smiled as best he could, but his shoulders were relaxed, and his arms remained at his sides. The jovial mood he had had at his failed coronation was gone; he didn’t feel like celebrating this day. This was merely an act to satisfy the masses, as Lódurr had said that morning. His name was echoing between the pillars, chanted like a mantra by the people. But it was not the same as it had been before — the Allfather had fallen into his Sleep, and the youngest prince lay dead and buried by ice and snow.

He mounted the steps and drew up next to his mother. The cheering died down before Frigga spoke, Gungnir tight in her grip — her knuckles were white.

“Kneel, Thor Odinson,” she said.

Thor sunk to a knee, his hands clenched by his sides and looking unblinkingly at his mother. Behind him, Councilman Forseti took up the crown and held it over his head. Thor mused of how different he had felt when he had been in this position three months previously, when everything had been perfect and _whole_.

“Thor Odinson,” Frigga said, “Heir to the Highest Seat Hlidskjalf, do you swear to guard the Nine Realms?”

Thor nodded. “I swear.”

“Do you swear to preserve the peace?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition and to pledge yourself only to the good of the realm?”

Thor’s words were full of gravity and sincerity. “I swear.”

“Then I, the Allmother and Wife of Odin, proclaim you King of Asgard, High Lord of Yggdrasil, Protector and Warden of the Nine Realms.”

Forseti placed the crown of oak leaves upon Thor’s head, and the resounding cheer echoed throughout the palace and city streets. Thor straightened up and turned on his heel, a grin fixed in place as he received Gungnir from his mother. He placed the spear’s end upon the floor, and the sound of metal on stone cut through the deafening noise.

Frigga stood aside as the elder council filed forward and, one by one, sunk to a knee and placed their fists over their hearts before they swore their oaths of allegiance. And when their voices echoed away into nothing, the Kingsguard repeated the oath before the rest of the Æsir followed suit.

And so it was to pass that the fourth son of Búri’s line took the throne of Asgard.


	20. Chapter Seventeen - Diplomacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

“I have an  _aunt_?”

The library was much bigger than Loki had been expecting — although it was far smaller than Asgard’s positively cavernous one. High shelves were arranged in rows throughout the room perpendicular to the main doors. Against the far wall, which was covered in hangings and tapestries, was a long table, fashioned from flint like many others throughout the castle, weighed down by books his teacher, Forad, had organised for his lesson.

Forad, who was sitting at the far end of the table, looked up from her work. “Had.”

Loki’s fingers tapped the hanging. Well, that suited him just fine. A dead aunt, and on Laufey’s side no less, he would never meet — he didn’t care.

He let out a huff, pulled his hand back to his side, and flicked his eyes to the right. Laufey’s name was etched there, and from the marriage line connecting him to Fárbauti, three new ones extended. His name, newly inscribed in its two jötunn runes upon the thick hide, was like a blight between Býleistr’s and Helblindi’s. He turned on his heel and marched to the table, pulling up a chair in which he sat down heavily.

Forad sighed and got up, moving her stack of things in front of the chair next to Loki. “We shall pick up where we left off last dawn, Your Highness.”

He nodded.

Loki had been determined to change his position in the courts of Jötunheimr following his conversation with Angrboða after Sigyn and Glut’s _hólmgangar_. He had done some reflecting and had, with a somewhat nasty realisation, seen that she had been right: he had been acting like a brat. Loki’s choice to change his behaviour also came down to the first thing Angrboða had said to him during the celebrations: adapt. He was stuck here for the foreseeable future — he refused to think how it might be forever — and he would not put himself into further danger by opposing Jötunheimr in public — which is what Fárbauti had asked of him.

So, he adapted. If only for later leverage.

Loki’s start to this adaption was to learn. He rose early, trained for an hour or two to keep his fitness up — after the recognition that it had declined dramatically as he had discovered during the assault in Þengraðr — bathed, and then ate before attending court until the midnight meal. Then he would have lessons with Forad until the dawn meal.

His lessons comprised of teaching him Jötunheimr’s history, language, art, culture, economics, law, and, arguably the most important of the lot considering the current environment, the history of the realm’s politics, particularly those of the surrounding provinces — including those of Þrymheimr and Gastropnir — that made up the continent Fyrstamsálfu. He learnt of the social cues he would have to obey within the court, of the circles within, and subsequently had met many of Laufey’s trusted advisors and their own families.

His grasp of the jötunn language was getting better every night as well. By now, he could hold minutes of conversation in the language with just the occasional slip-up — even if Helblindi said that his words hardly sounded guttural enough and had an Æsir-ian accent to them — and could read and write it to a certain extent. His life became much easier as the language barrier began to lift away.

After that, he would spend time with many of the she-jötnar vying for his attentions. The number of _hólmgangar_ being fought had reduced dramatically over the past month as Loki did what was expected of him by the public: he narrowed his choices. As such, nearly half had chosen to leave when it had been made clear through both defeat in _hólmganga_ and Loki’s lack of interest in them they had not succeeded in catching his eye. It was one problem of many that eased from his shoulders, and those who remained did so for appearance’s sakes.

There were several reasons for this interaction on his part, the first and foremost of them being it kept Laufey off his back. The king still had an eagle’s eye on him, but his vigilance had seemingly relaxed, Loki doing nothing to offend him. The stalemate meant Loki could, in the very least, ignore his sire. The second reason was Sigyn. He’d known removing her from her previous rooms was a risky move, lest it seem like he was favouring her. But he could have hardly allowed for her to stay where she had been, for it had been proven that she was a target to the other she-jötnar. The best way to address the situation had been, he decided, indifference. Loki had done just as the masses expected him: he talked and flirted with the stronger she-jötnar. There were four of them: Thorn who had talked to him at the celebrations and was the strongest of them, Haera, who had fought with Gnissa, Skaði, Thjazi’s daughter, and another girl called Hrönn.

With these drastic changes in behaviour, the court, and therefore the castle at large, was becoming much more accustomed to his presence. But under the façade of acceptance, as he attended court and learned his princely duties, expanding his knowledge of Jötunheimr, interacted with the she-jötnar, he was so precariously balanced in his mind he feared what would happen if he tipped over the edge.

The truth of it was that he was sick of hiding behind lies. But the lies were there for his own safety, and so he had little choice in the matter.

Loki pulled the stack of books and writing utensils towards him, flipping through one of the crumbling texts with the utmost care and taking out the bookmark. This book told of the history of the political laws between the provinces of the continent, and although it was boring and intellectually dull, it was important information for a prince of the realm to know. Loki thought it would also be safer for his delicate position to better understand the history behind the conflicts of the provinces — particularly of that between Útgarðar and Þrymheimr.

But as Loki was just about to translate the page from his previously inked out Æsir-ian runes written the night before back into jötunn ones, the doors to the library banged open. His and Forad’s heads snapped up at once. Hrym stumbled in, panting.

“Bifröst!” she said. “Bifröst has opened.”

“What?” Loki said sharply, slamming the book shut. “How so?”

“A messenger and an honour guard.” Hrym had been given the barest of necessities, as had her brothers. It had eventually been decided that the three of them, what with nowhere else to go, could be put to use around the castle. She didn’t look at him as she said it so quickly he could barely understand her, “Laufey-King has requested your presence in the Outer Court.”

Loki froze.

“His Majesty also bids you come as quickly as possible,” Hrym muttered to her feet. “He says for you to come as you are.”

Loki smoothed his expression and hid his emotions behind a snort. “Tell the king I’ll be there soon.” Turning to Forad, he said, “Go. I will see you back here at midnight tomorrow.”

Forad stood and bowed low with a mutter of, “Your Highness.” Hrym, who was still at the door, cast one long glance at Loki. Forad clipped her around the back of the head, and Hrym scampered away.

Loki sat back down and laced his fingers together, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to control the tremors shaking his shoulders.

Æsir.

Asgard.

Anger thrilled through him so suddenly he had trouble breathing. After  _months_ , they finally thought of him officially? He was hurt beyond words. He slammed his fist into the table, struggling to keep the roar buried in his chest. Why now? After all this time  _why_? Was it something to do with Thor? Thor who would _not let him go_?

He took a breath and looked towards the library door.

He had his duty to fulfil.

* * *

#

* * *

The Outer Court was packed by the time Loki arrived, five minutes after Hrym had delivered her message. Many jötnar stood amongst the rocks and ruins overshadowing the courtyard, hidden as they had been when he and Thor had come to Jötunheimr the first time. But this time, Loki was to stand on the opposite side of the battle. In the distance, making their way towards the castle were a half a dozen Æsir — five Einherjar, and one messenger. All were bundled tightly in thick furs, their armour and weapons glinting in the moonlight. Loki hesitated behind the alcove of the throne before stepping up.

Býleistr was there, sitting on the step to the left of Laufey’s throne and looking relaxed. Grýla was next to him, calm and stoic. Helblindi hadn’t yet arrived.

Laufey was slumped in his throne, expression bored as he picked something from between his teeth. Fárbauti also exuded such an air, legs crossed, and picking at the dirt and ice under her claws. Neither of them had bothered with any kind of finery, and Loki was reminded of the day he had come to Jötunheimr — Laufey had behaved as such. Offensive in the greatest, refusing to acknowledge any sort of strength one of the Æsir proclaimed.

And Loki wouldn’t have been ridiculed if he acted exactly the same as the king and queen-consort.

One thing Loki was glad for in the jötunn courts was that he didn’t have to stand and make eye contact with, or even face, those beneath him. He was glad for the arrogance of strength the jötnar so valued; glad, for once, of the hostility between Asgard and Jötunheimr. He came up behind the thrones and sat himself on the edge of the dais beside Fárbauti’s seat, profile towards the courtyard, and he interlaced his fingers on his knee. Helblindi decided to join him when he came, sitting himself in front of Loki and leaning back against him. Loki wondered if the younger jötunn was aware he had put an arm around his waist, anchoring him to his side. The contact grounded Loki, and he found it easier to breathe afterwards.

It was another minute or two before the Æsir reached the courtyard. Loki shrank back into the shadows as the ring the Einherjar had made around the messenger loosened slightly so he could be let through. Some of the jötnar had emerged to watch what was happening, and several had formed weapons on their arms. The vigil they provided was ominous, intimidating.

The messenger looked to be an experienced one, for even though he looked very small as he walked between the jötnar, he held his head high, and his eyes did not waver from Laufey’s chest. When he was a few metres away from the foot of the alcove, he bowed low. If the man was afraid, he masked it well.

“His Royal Majesty King Thor Odinson sends his greetings to Laufey Náljarson, King of Jötunheimr,” called the man, his voice steady.

 _King_  Thor? Loki frowned. Of course Thor was the reason they had come. But why was Thor king? The first conclusion he jumped to was that Odin was dead, but he dispelled the thought. No, Odin wouldn’t have died. So the Sleep, it must have been the Sleep. Thor had been made regent. Loki growled to himself, angry he still cared about Odin’s condition. He turned his face away.

“Why are you here?” asked Laufey, his voice much deeper than it usually was. His bore his teeth and lifted his head.

“King Thor, son of Odin Allfather, wishes to call diplomacy between our two realms to talk of reconciliation, Your Majesty.”

Laufey laughed, and Loki grimaced. Einherjar hands strayed to sword hilts.

Laufey stood, looking down his nose at the Æsir. “Reconciliation?” he repeated. “It is an odd stance for the son of Odin Speakbreaker to take when, not even half a year ago, he attacked and killed so many of our own.”

“He deeply regrets his actions and transgressions,” the messenger said. “The death of his brother, Prince Loki, has affected him deeply.”

Laufey laughed again, this time in astonishment. Loki felt utterly numb. For the first time since he had arrived, emotion crossed the messenger’s face. He looked uncomfortable at the outburst, and mutters were flying up and down the Outer Court.

“Prince Loki Odinson’s … death,” Laufey mused.

The messenger held out a thick parchment envelope, his fingers tight. “King Thor wishes to extend the hand of friendship and send a diplomatic party within a week of this date to discuss a hopefully flourishing future between Asgard and Jötunheimr. King Thor says it would be wise not to dismiss this ambassadorial meeting, not with the power of Asgard and her allies behind him.”

“You threaten us with war,” Laufey said, chuckling a little.

“Not war,” the messenger says. “It is an encouragement.”

There were a few seconds of silence before Laufey opened his mouth. “How typically Asgardian,” he said with a yawn. “Very well, send your diplomats.”

The messenger bowed low. “King Thor thanks your graciousness to host an ambassadorial party. Nine will travel to Jötunheimr, all of them intent on peace between the realms.”

Laufey waved a hand. “Go, Asgardian. Leave before I change my mind.”

The messenger backed away. Once he was within the folds of the Einherjar, they turned and marched away to the Bifröst site.

* * *

#

* * *

“Bý, can I have the bones? Please? You’re not eating them.”

“There’re plenty left on the platters.”

“Bý please. I want bones, not anymore meat.”

The dawn meal that night had been utterly silent apart from this exchange between Helblindi and Býleistr. Loki had had the appetite of a mouse, barely eating anything, and staring into space. His mouth was sand dry, and his mind had come to a standstill. There was to be a diplomatic meeting.  _Thor_  had called for peace between the realms. Fárbauti’s eyes were on him, and Loki wondered if she was worried about him.

Laufey seemed to be the only one who was by any stretch happy. “You are dead,” he said, and Helblindi stopped badgering Býleistr at once. He fell silent in his seat, and his eyes were wide as he turned them to Loki.

“I am dead,” Loki agreed. “You must be pleased, my king.”

“It’s the perfect way to bring Asgard crumbling down,” Laufey said, steepling his fingers and looking down the table to Loki. So, he  _had_  sniffed the political advantage by Asgard’s proclamation of Loki’s death. “Which is why I will use you to bring Jötunheimr’s message to Asgard.”

Loki stared. “ _What?_ ”

Laufey’s eyes were glinting, and his lip curled. His gaze was distant, and Loki had to wonder if he was even speaking to him anymore. “Just imagine it: the second prince of Asgard’s true nature revealed, and how he triumphs in Jötunheimr. How perfectly model he is. How  _strong_.” Laufey’s gaze refocused. “You will drive the nails home, my son. Isn’t that the saying?”

“Drive the nails into the coffin,” Loki corrected.

Laufey snorted and straightened up in his seat. He gestured to one of the servants to refill both his and Loki’s cups with wine. “You said you wished for Asgard to burn,” Laufey said, his voice quiet. He swirled the wine around before he brought it to his lips.

“Yes, my king.”

“Then this is how we begin: start with the kindling, and then feed the fire.”

Loki had to hide his hands under the table so the king wouldn’t be able to see them quivering. He gave a jerky nod. “Yes, my king.”

“Yes,  _Sire_ ,” corrected Laufey.

“Yes, Sire,” Loki repeated numbly.

“You seem less than pleased with this verdict,” Laufey said.

“My …  _Sire_ , I am not yet used to the idea that I would construct Asgard’s downfall,” Loki said in excuse. The truth was the proclamation for diplomacy had rattled him badly. “I spent my life furthering Asgard’s prosperity.”

Laufey rumbled low in his chest and leant back in his seat, merely looking at him.

Fárbauti placed a hand on Loki’s back, and her thumb ran over one of the heritage lines. It always felt strange when someone touched them, himself included, and he shivered.

“Excuse me,” he said stiffly, reaching for his wine as he stood. He downed the entire thing in one before he exited the hall.

Outside, he let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he had been holding and leant against the wall, horns clacking against the ice. Oh Norns, this was bad. The fact that he was dead to Asgard was a good thing from his point of view. It meant that he was safe from both the likes of them, and from the rest of Yggdrasil itself. It was making the best of a bad situation, and death had offered him security. But if news were to leak its way through the cosmos that not only was he alive and well, but jötunn, then that could prove to be disastrous; not only would it result in a political nightmare for Asgard, but would be dangerous for Jötunheimr. Several hostile realms, including Asgard if pressured into it, or if a splinter faction were to gain enough power to have a damaging effect, could declare war. Jötunheimr would crumble in a heartbeat.

He had to do something. To save his own skin at the least.

He made his way back to his chambers, barking at a passing servant to bring him alcohol. Once he was in his rooms, slumped down into the desk’s chair. He fumbled for parchment and a pen.

He drafted several letters that morning to Thor. Some spread for pages and pages, imploring Thor to change both his mind and attitude towards Jötunheimr, pulling forth every political and personal argument he could think of that would dissuade him from action, but these he burnt to a cinder as soon as he had finished them. No, Thor was not a creature of logic — he was a creature of emotional action.

What Loki finally wrote was short, to the point, and loaded with words shaped by his silver tongue. He banished the letter to the negative space and destroyed the ashes of his earlier attempts.

* * *

#

* * *

The jötnar muttered darkly amongst themselves as the Æsir party approached. Loki couldn’t make their faces out from where he was standing behind the throne concealed in shadow, nor did he particularly want to know who they were. Helblindi once again stood close by Loki, his brows lowered in disapproval as he pressed into Loki’s side. Býleistr stood at his sire’s shoulder, his teeth bared slightly at the Æsir beneath him. Fárbauti, Loki saw, was stalking a distance behind the Æsir, far enough away that she would not be immediately injured if something were to go wrong, but close enough she would easily be able to jump into the thick of any potential fight.

Loki, under Laufey’s orders, wore finery of iron; the rest of his blood kin did too, and the effect was intimidating. Hard, cold iron laying without protection on flesh unsettled those of other realms, but for the jötnar, it meant nothing; they weren’t harmed by it. Frost clung to the metal, but Loki didn’t notice it. He was sure he was more unnerved than the Æsir would ever be. He kept fiddling with it, twisting the armbands and rings to keep them sticking.

The Æsir halted at the foot of the throne’s alcove, before one of them stepped forward. Like all of them, he was dressed in thick winter furs with only his face visible; it was an obvious effort to raise his head from the lining of his cloak. His breath clouded in the air before his eyes as he spoke.

“King Thor Odinson sends his greetings to His Royal Majesty Laufey Náljarson, King of Jötunheimr. King Laufey, may I introduce Ambassador Arnbjǫrn Hethinnson. Upon his behalf, I humbly thank you for your gracious agreement to host our party. We come as peaceful emissaries, intent upon the discussion of stronger ties between our two realms. As per our previous correspondence, we have come to further our talks.”

Loki looked at the diplomats, doing a quick headcount; nine of them, as the messenger had said a week beforehand. Hethinnson he recognised, and a few others, but—

He stared.

_Sif?_

The hood of her cloak was drawn up, and one of her hands rested casually on the pommel of the sword at her hip. Her eyes were fixed on Laufey, but every now and again, they flickered around the crowd of jötnar. Loki’s heart jumped in his throat. What was she doing here? She was no diplomat. Damage control for when the truth came out? Most likely. Loki had to admire Thor’s forethought there.

Laufey’s claws scraped along the arms of his throne as he straightened up. “Let us not linger under any pretence,” he said, his deep, gravelly voice echoing in every corner of the place. “I do not want you here as much as you would rather be in your shining realm. You are here because Asgard will not hear of Jötunheimr’s animosity, will force its diplomats here when we do not want them, then we will show you. You Æsir are foolish to think we would shunt aside your so-thought casual crimes and the slow genocide of my people as easily as you do.”

The herald bristled, but he was wise enough to hold his tongue about it. Sif’s mouth tightened into a line.

“I can assure you that King Thor does not want your people to suffer unnecessarily,” Hethinnson said. “He would want our realms to become friends, to put aside the bloodshed of the past and begin anew. An alliance would bring great advantages in the future, such as the embargo around Jötunheimr being lifted and honest trade being re-established.”

“So we are to be Asgard’s plaything, subject to its whims?” Laufey asked, leaning forwards from his throne to better leer at the Æsir. “Well now, Hethinnson-Liar, I have no wish for an alliance with Asgard, nor for a casual acquaintance. You want to put aside our history, but you only need look around to see that this history is one not easily erased. What is the meaning behind this sudden want for peace when your king and the Allfather have proved time and time again they would like nothing more than for the relations between our two worlds to be … _strenuous_? Why, if it is a good impression you wish to make, then I invite you to return to us anything more of Jötunheimr you have stolen.”

“The Casket may not be given back so hastily, King Laufey,” Hethinnson said. “Trust must first be restored between the realms, and once it had been, I can assure you Asgard will return the Casket.”

“Trust … how can I hope to trust Asgard after everything it has done to not only my realm, but to my family?” Laufey’s mocking tone had turned into bitterness in the blink of an eye. Loki dreaded what was coming next. “You must forgive me, Ambassador, for I have realised I have been exceptionally rude. I have not introduced you to my sons, as the Allfather so introduced his heir to me. I have three sons, all of them strong and fit to wear my crown one night, all of them bearing the blessings of the realm and wearing the lines of my House and the horns of royal blood. My eldest, Býleistr, was born before the war, and my youngest, Helblindi, afterwards. But my middle child was born during the final nights of the war, and I thought him dead at Asgardian hands until the night of its recent attack. I thought it to be Æsir trickery that I saw the face of my mate amongst those of Asgard. But it was no trick. Both he and this realm were led on in a thousand year lie of such deception and skill it has caused irreparable damage. The — how do you say it? — house of cards has come crashing down, Asgardians.

“Tell me this — what new lie did the Allfather spin to explain the disappearance of Prince Loki?”

The Æsir stiffened as Loki reflexively shrunk back, his chest suddenly aching as he stopped breathing.

“Prince Loki still lives? What have you done with him?” one called. “Upon the name of Odin Allfather, release him this instant!”

Laufey laughed under his breath. “And your prejudices come forth at last, laid bare for all to see. So much for your sweetened words and pretence of peace. I cannot comply with your demand, for I have nothing to give back to you. Ask your Allfather — no, ask your boy king. Odin One-Eye willingly turned Loki-Prince into my care, as it always should have been.

“Loki,” Laufey said. “Show them the truth of my words. Let them no longer call the jötnar liars.”

Loki didn’t move for a long while. Laufey said nothing, obviously content to wait.

“Loki,” Helblindi muttered next to him, “you have to go.” He gave Loki a gentle push in the small of the back.

Loki felt frozen to the spot, but he forced himself to move. He was careful to keep his face blank as he stepped forth. The eyes of the diplomats widened as he came into the light of the moons. So, he had struck the impression Laufey had wanted.

“My prince,” one whispered. “I-I don’t understand what—? How can this be true …?”

Loki growled, and, as Laufey’s voice had done, the sound carried to every ear. “I am not your prince,” he said emotionlessly, lifting his chin. “I never was.”

“He is my son,” Laufey said. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Loki. “He was stolen, and now he has returned. Do you still wish for peace with the realm? Or are these the Thunderer’s wishes?”

Hethinnson squared his shoulders. His lips were white, but it had nothing to do with the cold. Sif took him by the upper arm and murmured something in his ear. Hethinnson shook his head, and Sif’s eyebrows drew closer together as she repeated her words, the tendons in her neck standing out in her annoyance.

When she stepped away, Hethinnson cleared his throat. “We would still treat with you, King Laufey.” His voice was shaky.

Laufey snorted, sitting back down in his throne and crossing his legs. “Tell your boy king I have no want of his parley. Jötunheimr has been left to rot by Asgard for centuries — the realm that has stolen its greatest treasure and its life. Jötunheimr certainly has no want of treating now. Leave this realm, and tell your  _king_  if Asgard wishes to keep its diplomats and warriors alive, they had best not set foot in this realm again. He would not be so foolish as to try and call war upon the realm again, not after what happened last time.

“Leave, Hethinnson. I want you gone within the half hour. Know if you so much as look at one of my people wrongly, then you will not return to Asgard in the condition you left it.”

Loki’s eyes found Sif’s briefly before he looked away. He was silent.

“Loki,” Laufey said suddenly. “You and your brother will escort our guests back to the Bifröst site. I expect you to report back anything they say in that wretched tongue of theirs.”

 _He’s doing it to show them what I am,_  Loki thought, furious.  _He wants to mock them._

“Yes, Sire,” he said flatly.

Býleistr too nodded, and he and Loki strode down the sides of the dais, standing over the Æsir party.

“Come,” Býleistr said, walking away. To Loki, he said in Jötunn, “Sire expects that you do not talk to them in their Asgardian tongue. If you are to speak with them, you do so in the Allspeak.”

“Fine,” Loki snapped back. As he did so, Loki flicked his fingers, sending the letter to the inner pocket of Sif’s cloak. She must have felt the weight of it appear, for she looked at him sharply. Loki stared back unblinkingly. She didn’t say anything about it, only readjusted her sword.

“We should leave, Lord Hethinnson,” she said.

Hethinnson was looking at Loki in some kind of horror, but after Sif asked him, tersely, once again to move, he compiled. “But my prince, I don’t—”

“But nothing,” Loki snarled. “Go. I do not have all night.”

Býleistr growled in approval. If it was the meaning of Loki’s words or the bite with which he said them he agreed with, Loki did not know; he was busy trying to keep control of his expression and his emotions.

“My prince—” another of the diplomats tried, but Loki snapped at him, and ice crawled along his arm.

He stared at the party unblinkingly as he said, “Leave.”

Not another word was said to the Æsir as they were escorted back to the Bifröst site. Býleistr, however, kept up a constant commentary in Jötunn to Loki about them. Loki answered with bare-toothed smiles stretched wide enough to make his face hurt, and spoke as little as he could get away with. Loki was watching the diplomats, Hethinnson in particular. They had spoken on several occasions, but never extensively. Loki could see something behind his eyes that promised nothing friendly towards him, and Loki glared at him in return. He was sure by the time they stepped upon the seal of Bifröst, Hethinnson would have happily gutted him had he been given the chance. Several other diplomats as well, judging by their actions and body language.

“Now,” Býleistr said in the Allspeak, “you are diplomats. Be sure to relay the message of our sire to your king. Jötunheimr hopes that you will not return.”

They stepped back, and Loki watched stonily as the Bifröst retrieved the diplomats. When the roar left his ears, Jötunheimr, if possible, seemed to grow even colder.


	21. Chapter Eighteen - To Make It Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

The gardens his mother tended to were beautiful. But standing as she was at the wall surrounding it, the huge ash tree shading her from the midday sun, the gardens were nothing. Asgard glittered gold beneath her, and Bifröst pulsed with bright colours, visible even at the sun’s greatest height.

“Mother,” he said.

She turned to him, smiling serenely. His heart jumped. “My boy,” she whispered.

Loki covered her hand with his, a faint smile touching the corner of his mouth as he merely basked in her presence. Norns, how he missed this — the simplicity of her touch, of her uncomplicated love of him, and he of her. “Mother.”

“My wonderful Thor.”

Loki’s eyes grew wide as she moved past him, moved to embrace Thor who stood behind Loki. Loki choked as she clung to Thor tightly, and Thor hugged her back, a glint in his eye.

“You know,” said Odin, striding out from behind them, “it always gave me a perverse pleasure hearing the son of my most hated enemy call me ‘Papa’. My grandest of jokes. The frost giant prince of Jötunheimr claiming to love me.”

“I do!” he cried. “Father, I—!”

“You think to me your father when you look like that?” Odin mused.

Loki looked at his hands, at the blue and the claws and the lines upon them glowing like moonlit pearls. “This isn’t me,” he whispered.

“Look at it, Thor,” Frigga whispered. “You think it worthy to be your brother, my golden son? My beautiful child? The child of my flesh and blood?”

“It is truly hideous,” Thor agreed.

“Thor, please! _Brother!_ ”

“Dare you call the prince of Asgard your brother?” Sif said. “Why would anyone even want to be related to you, monster?”

“That is quite a good point, Sif,” the Warriors Three said in unison. Loki swung around, startled by their sudden appearance, and they smiled brightly at him. “Just look at it.”

“Those eyes.”

“The teeth.”

“The claws.”

“The horns.”

Loki cowered, and he scrambled back as hordes of people advanced on him, all of them blond-haired and blue-eyed and beautiful. He wanted to scream to tell them that he was Æsir, nothing but Æsir and that the blue skin was just another great big lie that he thought would have stirred the courts and thought would have been funny.

But he couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t put his silver tongue to use.

“This lie has gone on for far too long, now,” Odin said from behind him. “Now it’s just distasteful.”

Loki whirled around. The gardens were gone, the sunlight had vanished, and the ash tree towered above him, impossibly big. It was unnaturally dark, silver moonlight streaming from the distant canopy and the winds howled through the creaking branches.

And in the middle of the Ash was Odin. Blood dripped down the shaft of the spear impaling him, pinning him on the tree. And his eyes … his eyes were burning with hate and pain as he growled, “You’re no son of mine. You’re no son of mine. You’re _no_ son of mine!”

The mouth moved, but no noise came from it. A raven was perched by Loki’s knee on a knotted root, staring at him with pale grey eyes.

The raven tilted its head. “Plan!” it cried in Odin’s voice.

Loki snarled at it, his shoulders bunching.

“The piece in the plan! The piece in the plan!” the raven shrieked. “The fool Laufeyson!”

He pounced, his clawed hands reaching for the bird, but it hopped away with ease.

“Plan! Plan!” The raven cawed as it flew above him. “Laufeyson! Odinson! Nothing but a plan!”

Ice cut through the space—

Loki’s eyes opened with a jerk, and he barely managed to keep his sob back. It was jammed uncomfortably in his throat, and he let out a breath, shuddering as he sat up. Weak afternoon sunlight illuminated the room from behind the thick curtains, and he turned away from it, seething as he rearranged the pillows and furs — they were thick with ice born from his instinctive lash-out.

A week had dragged by since the diplomats had come. He hadn’t been sleeping as badly as this since his first nights in the realm, but now whatever little ground he had gained had been lost. Between the nightmares, his duties to the crown, and the attendance to the she-jötnar, it had left him exhausted.

Loki passed a hand over his face and peered at the light again. It was dimmer than he’d originally thought, and he grunted. He stretched and shook his head, shuffling to his feet and running his fingers through his hair. He had a couple of hours before he was expected for anything, and he knew from experience he wasn’t getting back to sleep.

* * *

#

* * *

It always surprised him, after his training sessions, how much he stank. Loki had assumed that since Jötunheimr was anything but warm, that the jötnar did not sweat. But sweat they did, and through a combination of his finer-tunned senses and unfortunate biology, the smell was disgraceful. Some part of him wondered as to why it didn’t freeze, but he felt too dirty at that point in time to really care much.

He threw his last ice spear at the target block, and it sank into the centre with a screech of ice-on-rock. Loki put his hands to his knees, panting heavily and eyeing the still quivering spear. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and turned to leave the arena, irritably running his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. As he released the ice magic, the spear shattered and fell to the ground along with the others. Loki had a headache, and his muscles were burning. The sun had vanished beneath the horizon a little while ago, and with it, Útgarðar really began to come alive.

The cool silver moonlight lit his way back to the castle, but Loki did not turn towards his chambers. From the castle’s entrance hall, he made his way down the grand stairs that ran from the top floor to the passageways deep within the ice and rock.

A messenger was leaning idly against the balustrade of the stairs, and her head jerked up when Loki entered. “Your Highness!” She hurried over and bowed hastily before him. “I have a message from Laufey-King. He requires your presence in court tonight until the dawn. You are to present yourself to him within the hour.”

Loki nodded stiffly. Annoyance flared in his chest, but he tried his best to quell it. Laufey had ordered it. He was bound to obey.

“I assume my other duties have been cleared,” he said. That meant he wouldn’t have to meet with Forad — a disappointment, because his lessons were actually quite interesting — and there would be fewer _hólmgangar_ towards the dawn — a relief, because he was sick of them.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Loki dismissed the messenger with a wave of his hand and began his descent of the staircase.

Underneath the castle, the air was much warmer than on the surface. The corridors stretched for nearly a half-kilometre down, and the icy stone gave way into plain rock passageways. They were warmed by underground springs heated by the core of the planet. It was something that Loki had known about, but had had little desire to visit for stubbornness on his part if nothing else. Eventually, he had folded to his curiosity, and now came down to the pools after every training session.

He met few jötnar — most of them servants — along the way, but didn’t say so much as a word when they bent their necks to him. He was much more focused on the thought of a wash. A twisting corridor led off the main passage a little way past some of the ones to the pools used by the castle staff. It had a slight rise to it, and Loki pulled his way up along the wall to hurry himself to his destination.

The room Loki came into was bare, save for the pile of rough-woven towels and fresh _kjiltar_ opposite the pool. The pool itself was easily fifteen metres in diameter. The cloudy water was perfectly calm, and slight wisps of vapour came off its surface. The pool ended with a rock wall at its far end, into which was a chiselled shelf set with brushes, sponges, a bone strigil, and a few liquid soaps in sealed bottles.

Loki touched a crystal lamp set into the wall beside the entrance arch, and half a dozen more set around the room lit up in unison, casting it into a soft bluish light. Loki sighed deeply before he unbuckled his belt, his eyes fixated on the water as the leather and metal fell around his ankles. He stepped out of it and walked briskly to the pool. He slid in, a rumble of satisfaction in his chest as he sat on the low seat beneath the water, head tilted back and eyes closed. The underground pools were pleasantly hot to his jötunn skin, but would have been lukewarm to his Æsir form.

After a couple of minutes, he walked to the centre of the pool where the water reached his chin, and ducked under to wet his hair. He threw his head up after a couple of seconds, shaking it from side-to-side to rid his hair and ears of water. He went to the shelf holding the bathing supplies, rubbing soap in his hair and over his body.

He was scraping the sweat from himself with the strigil before he realised that someone was behind him. He froze as he heard the clink of metal as they shifted their weight.

“Good eventide, Loki-Prince.”

“Lady Hloajardóttir,” Loki said, his voice carefully controlled as he put the strigil down. “I was unaware that you had been allowed access in here. These pools are private.”

“I like bending the rules a bit, especially if it means seeing you, Highness.”

He fixed a stiff smile on his face before he turned around. “Well, if my lady insists.”

Haera was leaning against the wall by the passageway. Her arms were crossed, and she returned his smile toothily. “Of course; I’ve missed you.”

“Haera, it has been less than a turn of the realm since I last spoke with you. I distinctly recall that I saw you off to your chambers last night.”

“It is hardly adequate, I think. I do enjoy our company.”

Loki chuckled, trying his best not to make it sound forced. The truth about Haera, which was something that became more and more evident the longer he spent in her company, was that she was arrogant. He disliked her immensely. “You have done wonders, Haera,” he said.

Haera hummed as she drew up to the edge of the pool. “May I join you, my prince?”

Loki didn’t have time to reply, for as soon as the words left her lips, she started to remove her clothes.

Loki’s expression darkened. “Haera,” he started, but she slipped into the water before he could finish his sentence.

Her expression changed to one of relaxed content as she sat herself down on one of the seats, leaning back and extending a leg out of the water in a stretch. It hung in the air for far longer than Loki thought necessary. “Do they have pools like this on Asgard, my prince?” she asked casually.

Loki was careful not to take his eyes off her as he retreated to shallower waters. She opened her eyes and looked at him as he sat on one of the submerged ledges a good distance from her. He rested his elbows on the edge of the pool and said, “Not natural pools like these, but the bathhouses there were quite extraordinary.”

“Is that so?”

She stood up and waded through the water to him slowly. Loki was stuck. He couldn’t move away, but he crossed his legs all the same under the water. His claws dug into the rock, and his eyes hardened.

Haera stopped a pace or so in front of him, and Loki thought it was a very deliberate move of her to place her breasts by his face. “I saw you training,” she said. “I was out for a walk, and I managed to see the last few minutes of your exercises.”

“I had little idea that I had accumulated a stalker.” His voice was light in an effort to brush her off.

“It is hardly a wonder as to why. You should hear of how the others talk of you — they admire your strength, your beauty, and your horns are especially a topic of conversation. They are so very fine.”

Loki wanted to snarl at her, yell at her about how dare she patronise him, but held his tongue and gave a forced smile. “I am glad you think so,” he said through gritted teeth.

“There’s a … well, a hypothesis that has been making the rounds recently,” Haera purred, “about how horns tell of their owner’s … girth, so to say.”

Loki tilted his head. “If that were true, then I wouldn’t have the grounds upon which to justify the claim.”

Haera closed the distance between them, and it took all of Loki’s willpower not to move away — he felt rooted to the spot by his pride if nothing else. He regarded her coolly through narrowed eyes.

Haera put a hand on his chest, feeling the muscle beneath his skin and murmured, “Well, my humble prince, I hope that one night soon I may be the judge of such a thing.”

Loki tensed as she kissed him suddenly. He’d been expecting it, but the sheer audacity made him tighten his lips instinctively. After a heartbeat, he relaxed himself enough to move his lips, but he made no effort to deepen the kiss — in truth, it took everything in him not to push her away. The single reason he tolerated it was for the huge setback he would have suffered if he didn’t. Word would have a risk of getting around, and Laufey’s surveillance would increase. He curled his hands into fists, and his claws dug painfully into his palms; it barely distracted him enough.

Haera exhaled through her nose, and her foot traced up his calf as she moved herself onto his knees. They were chest to chest now, and the water on his skin felt unpleasant and far too warm against hers. She ran the backs of her claws down the side of his face gently, and her other hand was tangled in his newly washed hair, curling it around her fingers. But when her tongue poked at his mouth, Loki had had enough. He leant his head back and put his hand on her shoulder. Haera twitched, but made no further resistance as he pushed her away so much so she almost fell into the water.

“Goodnight, Lady Haera,” Loki said coolly. “I have court to attend to.”

“Yes, my lord. I am sorry; that was rash of me. I apologise.” Haera backed away. “Forgive me, my prince. I did not realise your schedule for tonight was so busy.” She lifted herself from the water and retrieved her clothes, walking out of Loki’s sight with a swing in her hips.

He was rigid, and his mind had come to a standstill. His interactions with Haera over the past two months had been nothing but an act, and he cursed himself for not seeing to the heights to which it had escalated. Two months he had been seeing the she-jötnar, and he hadn’t so much as brushed his lips over their knuckles. Haera, clearly, was starting to get frustrated with the lack of development beyond the exchange of sweet words.

Loki would have to rethink his course of action, and quickly, if he were to continue to win his current position with not only Laufey, but with the rest of the court. He was running out of both excuses and time.

_Heat. Pheromones. Not long now. Three months left._

He licked his lips and found some sort of sweet residue on them that must have been from Haera’s own. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and glared after her. Growling, he hoisted himself out of the pool, dried himself with a quick spell, and pulled his clothes towards him. He stalked back to the upper floors of the castle, his stomach rumbling. The feel of Haera’s lips on his never quite left as he dressed in his court finery and ate the eventide meal; he desperately wished it would.

* * *

#

* * *

Rumours circulated fast within a court, and so by the next night, everyone Loki met knew of what had happened between himself and Haera at the pools. Haera had been thorough when spreading the story, exaggerating it even, and she found herself the centre of attention amongst the she-jötnar — a privileged but somewhat dangerous position. Loki himself had heard much of what was being said through word of mouth.

Several other of the she-jötnar bristled with discontent when Loki and Haera were seen together, including Hrönn and Thorn. Angrboða had been right about Thorn, Loki thought — she was not going to help him in any way possible. The younger and lower ranked also weren’t happy with the situation. All except one, and it piqued his curiosity as to her lack of interest, solely because everyone else was overreacting to his and Haera’s new situation.

Loki saw Sigyn around the castle and its grounds over the next several nights, always a lonely figure at the fringes. She attended the _hólmgangar_ when they were called, but she was never once challenged again. Loki thought that perhaps it was because she had receded out of the public eye due to her defeat, his ignoring her, and her introverted nature. He would have liked to have talked to her, but he could never find an adequate opportunity; he didn’t want her back in the spotlight again.

As for Haera, it had become a difficult patch of ground for the both of them. Loki had talked to her once about the incident shortly after it happened, simply to express his displeasure at her actions. Haera, it had seemed to him, hadn’t taken the reprimand seriously. Oh, she’d apologised, but it had been for formality’s sake, he thought.

And she had been attached to his side. What with her arm entwined with his and leaning her head on his shoulder, she had experienced a sudden surge in challenges to _hólmganga_ , all of which she won. It resulted in Loki being further pressured into spending even more time with her. It was infuriating, but he was stuck. It would look suspicious if he rejected her publicly all of a sudden as, as far as the wider populace was concerned, such a mix of blood would be perfect. A few more weeks, and the match would be as good as made. Any kind of rejection had to be subtle, he thought, otherwise he would lose whatever footing he had left. He couldn’t reject her; it’d set him back a long way.

And the solution hit him a week before his name day — which in itself was six days earlier than he had thought, and that brought a whole other plethora of emotions he pushed down with all the other crap. It was so bloody obvious.

“Uh, Loki?”

“What?”

Helblindi’s head was cocked to the side, the slightest of frowns on his face. “What’re you thinking of? Dam gets that same look whenever she’s thinking of something.”

“Nothing you have to bother your head with,” Loki said, inwardly wincing at the comparison. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “What are you doing here? The sun’s still up.” Loki had, once again, been unable to sleep, and he’d retreated to the practice arena.

“I just … I heard you getting up, and I wondered where you were going,” Helblindi said, a little sheepishly.

Loki swung his spear around, planting the end of it in the ground and leaning on it. “I’m here,” he said, “now you know. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m already up,” Helblindi said, “and I want you to teach me something.”

“Me? Teach _you_ something?” Loki asked sceptically.

“How did you break Herkir’s elbow?”

“I think Laufey wouldn’t be impressed if I teach you Æsir fighting techniques,” Loki said flatly, yanking his spear out of the ground and turning back to the target.

“I won’t tell him,” Helblindi said, scampering up behind Loki. “Promise.”

“That’s not the point,” Loki said.

“Then what is?” Helblindi demanded.

“It’s Æsir,” Loki said simply, hefting his spear at the same moment.

“I don’t care,” Helblindi said. “As long as I can put my opponent down, then I don’t care _how_ I do it.”

“But the public does, and I refuse to risk my arse even more by teaching you Æsir fighting techniques.”

“How do you risk yourself? You just said _I_ would be the one to look bad because _I’d_ be the one breaking people’s elbows!”

The spear fell to Loki’s side. “Because of Þrymheimr and everyone else who hates me,” he snapped. “By teaching you, some would say that I am corrupting you, making you Æsir. It wouldn’t matter if they actually believed it to be true; the point is that they will do whatever they can to pick a fight. And I don’t want to find myself in a war, Helblindi.”

Helblindi’s lip was quivering, and he swallowed, lifting his chin. “You’re a jerk,” he said quietly.

Loki said nothing.

“You’ve changed. You used to want to disobey Sire’s every wish, and now you’re just taking his crap.”

“Self-preservation,” Loki said flatly. “Don’t try to manipulate me, Helblindi.”

Helblindi shoved him back, and Loki snarled, raising his fist on instinct. But Helblindi stormed off, breaking into a run when he got to the gates.

“Run, then,” Loki hissed under his breath. He felt like pulling Helblindi back by his hair. He _hated_ how Helblindi had managed to push his buttons just so. Couldn’t he understand that Loki too was _sick of it_? He was sick of how he had to prowl around everyone and everything, sick of watching Laufey move him further and further under his thumb, but Loki was patient; he had to be. After all, he had to ensure his own safety first before he struck.

And firstly, it meant he had to get rid of Haera. Tonight.

After he had finished, washed, and dressed, he slipped through the corridors of the castle and concealed himself in an alcove with magic opposite the feasting hall the she-jötnar used. Biting his lip, he set himself to wait.

Maybe a half hour later, some began to trickle into the feast hall. They came in twos and threes, chatting amongst themselves. Loki pressed himself further back into the alcove, even though he was hidden by both the shadows and his magic.

He grew bored waiting for someone to exit, and when a young, lowborn she-jötunn came out later, he took careful study of both her face and her form, holding them both in his mind’s eye. Loki took a breath and closed his eyes. It was a new aspect of his shifting that Fárbauti had taught him last week — that of shifting between genders. It was a bit uncomfortable, feeling his hips widen and his shoulders narrowing. His chest grew heavy with breasts — and Norns, how did women live with them? — and he shrunk several inches. The bones in his face rearranged themselves, his chin rounding, and his cheekbones becoming less prominent. His horns vanished, and his head felt light and free. Once the change was complete, he looked to himself in the wall, satisfied with his work. He was the twin of the girl who had just left. Loki stepped from the alcove, releasing the concealment charm at the same time and casting an illusion over his chest to make it look as if it were covered. Then he entered the hall.

Perhaps fifteen she-jötnar were there, huddled in four separate groups and talking idly over their meals. Loki made a beeline for the nearest. He did his best to bounce over, and it was difficult to curb the urge to cross his arms over his chest to restrain the breasts.

“Have you heard?” he whispered in the best accent he could, leaning over the table and talking in a hushed tone, “Loki-Prince is seeing another woman tonight.”

The she-jötnar looked around to him as one.

“What?” one said sharply. “Who?”

Loki shook his head. “I don’t know, but that’s what I’ve heard.”

“From where?” another asked.

“My cousin,” Loki lied. “He works here, and he’s friends with Loki-Prince’s personal serving maid.”

“Are you sure?” the first one asked.

Loki nodded enthusiastically. He was holding his breath now, desperately concentrating on keeping the shift. His body wanted to revert to its usual harsh lines, and he could feel his horns trying to emerge; his head was pounding. “I’ll need to get more details from my cousin. Please excuse me.”

He barely managed to hold the shift for long enough. He collapsed into the alcove, and his jötunn body came back with a lurch. He leant against the wall, panting heavily; his body was wracked with shivers, too. He really needed to learn how to properly maintain those partial shifts. But the damage was done, and that was all he could ask for.

* * *

#

* * *

Most predictably, Haera found him within the two hours after he had started the rumour. Loki had a free night, one he had been planning to fill with reading in a hidden nook, but Haera had gotten to him first.

“Your Highness,” she said, bowing before him as Loki slid books off the library shelves, “good eventide.”

“Good eventide, Haera,” Loki said, not bothering to look around at her.

“To get to the point,” she said, “I have heard that you’re planning to see another tonight. Not me.”

“Really?” Loki asked, pulling out a heavy tome titled _The Political History between Útgarðar and Gastropnir, Concerning the Reigns from Grettir IV to Smathal I_. “My Lady Hloajardóttir, have you been listening to gossip?”

“In Útgarðar, it is impossible to escape,” Haera said, following him down the aisle. “Sometimes it turns out to be true.”

“I wouldn’t bother with shallow gossip; I never do,” Loki said in an effort to throw her off. “It turns out that ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s bullshit, thrown haphazardly together to draw attention to the one who spreads it.” He took her hand in his and kissed her palm. “So let me put this piece to rest: I will see you after the dawn meal, on garður af íss’ bottom level. We can be there together.”

“After the dawn meal?”

“I promise,” Loki purred, before he kissed her lightly on the lips.

And as he suspected, this was where her arrogance was most welcome. He only had to slip in a few half-truths, along with a distraction to prevent any further questions, and, sure enough, Haera swallowed the bait like a starving wolf. He had promised to see her, sealed with a kiss, and that was enough for her.

And then she smiled, her every movement cat-like and seductive. She cupped his cheek and kissed him in return. “I’d like to have sex with you, Loki, very much so,” she said. “Perhaps at the dawn?”

Loki, apart from barely managing to fight down a painful chest-wracking hack of surprise, wanted to hit her at the familiarity with which she spoke to him with. He swallowed against the pain. “I’ll see you at dawn, my lady,” he said, forcing a smile.

* * *

#

* * *

Sigyn was the one other jötunn he could consider humane enough other than Angrboða and Helblindi. Which was exactly why he sent her a note requesting that she meet him on the bottom-most level of garður af íss before the dawn meal. The ice garden — and that was the word that had best translated, as there wasn’t a single piece of plant-life to be seen — was a multi-storeyed wonder. Cut into the back of the slope the castle was built atop before plunging into a ravine, it housed glittering sculptures of ice. Some held their natural shapes, and their huge spikes split the sky like branches, whilst some had been carved into statues of jötnar, animals, mythological beasts, and some even had been shaped in delicate filigree and brocade. The place was one of the few things that had been restored after the war, and even so, it required constant maintenance; the ice was brittle and devoid of life because of the Casket’s taking. Loki didn’t care about that either, but, he supposed, for Jötunheimr, it was a small slice of paradise.

Loki had come under the shadow of darkness, eager not to be seen by anyone and so spoil his plan. He came without finery — his only ornaments an armband and the wolf’s head pebble. He nodded to the guards standing at the entrance archway, and they nodded back before refocusing their attention back to space, Loki assumed. He stood for a second at the top of the garden, breathing in the scent of the near-dawn deeply before going to and making his way down the stairs to the bottom level.

It was a fair trek down — as the whole thing contained six extensive levels — and he paused when he saw Sigyn sitting on a bench below him. She was dressed in her fine things, with her silk cloth, golden choker, and dragon cuff. Her ears were also lined with tiny gold studs that winked in the moonlight. Her hair trailed in a long plait down her back. She looked almost statuesque.

Loki didn’t call her attention until he was maybe ten feet away. “Lady Bláinsdóttir.”

Sigyn whirled around, standing up and dropping into a bow at once. “Your Highness. Forgive me, I didn’t see you.”

Loki hummed and drummed his fingers on his arms. “I see. Walk with me,” he said, jerking his head a little to the path that wound about the level.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Sigyn hurried to his side and Loki turned, staying towards the closest wall and the shadows — something born of new habit and the slight cover it would buy if someone were to see them.

As they passed under the arch of an immense sculpture of two fighting káshta, he asked, “How’s your leg?” It was the only opening line he could think of.

“It’s healed, my prince,” she said.

“Good.”

An awkward silence fell again, but this time, Sigyn was the one to break it:

“Highness, I’ve heard of … of what you and Lady Hloajardóttir … in the baths—”

“It was nothing,” Loki said. “It was her engagement, and I ended it soon afterwards. Nothing more was said or done of it.”

He thought he might have imagined how Sigyn’s shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch as his words. “I understand, Your Highness,” she said. She cleared her throat and said in a tiny voice, “I’ve heard a rumour too that she’s asked to have sex with you.”

Loki didn’t reply at first. He wasn’t surprised, though. Haera hadn’t been quiet, and the walls were no doubt full of those fishing for any scrap of information that could be exchanged for gold. “Do I sense disappointment in you?”

“If I wasn’t in the slightest bit disappointed when I heard, my prince,” Sigyn said, “there’s really very little point in me being here.”

Loki stopped, glaring at the wall. Sigyn too stopped, and she was very still, not even drawing breath. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she muttered. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

Loki didn’t give any indication that he had heard her, much less accepted her words. He started down the path again. “Perhaps this invitation has alleviated that a little?”

“It has done, Your Highness. And yet … Forgive me once more, but I am wondering why it is that we have continued to maintain contact with one another. I insulted you when we first met.”

“That you did. And that’s what I find curious: the question of _why_. Why do it? Why continue to talk when it was expected and pressured for you to stop?”

“According to my brother, my prince, it is because I have a death wish on my head.”

“And is this brother of yours correct?” Loki asked. “You seem to be brushing up with Hel quite a bit lately. First that, then the _hólmganga_ with Glut, and now your continued insolence.”

“I apologise, Your Highness,” Sigyn said, hushed.

“Don’t be,” Loki said. “It’s refreshing.”

Sigyn blinked in surprise. “I-if you insist, Your Highness.”

“I do.” It made him feel freer. “Tell me: are you finding your stay easier now that your rooms are more private?” he asked, ducking beneath a spike of ice.

“I am, thank you. But I have been thinking in the recent nights that there is no real reason for me to stay any longer,” she said. “Regardless of what … what happened in the aftermath of the _hólmganga_ between Glut and myself, I still lost.”

“Then why do you stay?” Loki asked. He stopped again, tilting his head a little to the side to examine her. “You could leave at any time, yet you don’t.”

It was more for the effect the words would bring rather than the answer he would get. They had their desired effect, for Sigyn paused mid-stride, gulping minutely and looking both towards her feet and for an answer.

“You have freckles,” Loki said suddenly.

“Pardon, Your Highness?” Sigyn asked a breath quicker than she normally spoke, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Oh, yes, I have freckles.”

Loki clamped his mouth shut. The observation had been such a surprise to him his tongue had slipped. He hadn’t dreamt of the possibility the jötnar could have something such as freckles. They were a slightly darker blue than the rest of her skin, splattered across the bridge of her nose like paint flicked from a brush. Now he had noticed them, he saw they extended down her neck, over her shoulders and onto her back.

“I don’t see many people with them,” he said in an attempt to cover himself. It was the truth, though. Freckles were something the Æsir took a certain shame with — the women in particular — and so many had taken to hiding them with creams and glamours. Loki, on the other hand, had always liked them.

“Yes. They’re not common.” Sigyn ran the pads of her fingers across her cheekbone. She seemed pleased to have gotten off the earlier topic, for she launched herself into the new conversation. “I hated them when I was a child,” she said with a small laugh. “I often asked my sire if he could take me to see one of the _goðar_ so they would be able to get rid of them, but he always refused.”

“Do you still hate them?”

Sigyn shrugged. “They just are. I don’t think much of them.” She placed the tip of one of her claws between her teeth and looked over the ledge of the garden and into the ravine, breathing deeply as she did so. Loki leant back onto the wall, comfortable sharing the silence between them. But now that he had seen those freckles, he found himself looking for other traits she had. She stood ramrod straight, the curve of her back illuminated by the moons’ light, and it cast a pearly glow over her heritage lines. From the profile view he had of her face, he noticed that she had long eyelashes too, that her cheeks bore deep dimples, that her neck was long and slender, that her nose was ruler straight….

Norns—

“My prince Loki? I am here.”

He swore under his breath before he grabbed Sigyn by the upper arms, turned her around so her back was to the wall, and murmured in Jötunn, “Relax.”

“Wh—?” Sigyn barely had time to look confused before Loki pulled her to him and kissed her as Haera came into view. Loki was exposed to the moonlight whilst he had shoved Sigyn into shadow, covering the lines on her hands and arms with his own. Sigyn hadn’t relaxed as he’d asked her to, and Loki nipped at her bottom lip a little before she responded. She was a shy thing, barely moving her lips, and holding her breath completely as Loki concentrated on her, winding his free hand into her hair and clutching her own hand with his other.

“My prince—” Barely concealed rage coloured Haera’s voice, and Loki smiled discreetly into the kiss.

Loki broke away from Sigyn a couple of seconds later. He pushed her away a little, a silent encouragement to stay hidden as he whirled towards Haera. “What are you doing here?” Loki asked, faking anger.

“I … I had hoped to please you by not keeping you waiting,” Haera said, a clipped note in her voice.

“I am your prince, and this opportunity to court me is not open to only you. It is within my right to kiss as many people as I like, including Lady Imð.”

“Lady Imð?” Haera asked, a hint of flabbergastation in her voice. “But she—”

“Haera,” Loki cut across her, “I believe you’ve now upset the Lady Geitla. The poor thing.”

“T-the Lady Geitla?” spluttered Haera. “But, Your Highness, you just said—”

“I know what I said,” Loki growled. “Are you suggesting something of my memory?”

Haera grit her teeth. “No, my prince,” she ground out.

Loki tutted, and he made a show of forcing his shoulders to relax. “Lady Hloajardóttir, I’m hurt, and Lady Skrati is offended. Perhaps this is not the best time for you to have come. Did I not say _after_ the dawn meal? I do believe it is still happening. Am I correct?”

“You are, Your Highness. Excuse me; I shall reacquaint myself with those attending and apologise for my sharp departure.” That, Loki was certain, she had directed towards him. She bowed stiffly and left, stomping up the stairs.

There was silence for a few seconds before Loki turned back to Sigyn and murmured, “Thank you.”

“My prince … I don’t understand what …?” Sigyn whispered. Even in the shadows, Loki could see her cheeks were a dark blue, and her shoulders were trembling from what he guessed was a mixture of shock, and the adrenaline rush.

“You’ve helped me as I once did you,” Loki said. “I appreciate it, Sigyn.”

“My lord, please.” Sigyn reached for his arm, but drew back at the last second. Her breathing was fast, erratic even, and Loki sighed. He may as well broach the subject that he had been sidetracked from before.

“Sigyn,” he said, “you feel something for me, yes?”

“I …” But when Loki continued to look at her, she nodded a little.

“You hardly know me,” Loki said.

“Yes,” Sigyn agreed.

“Those could have been my true colours.”

“Haera-Lady has … always been persistent,” Sigyn said finally. “My family resides in the fiefdom hers governs, my sire sworn in service to her dam, and … stories leak. Haera-Lady is ambitious, Highness, nothing more.”

“Why do you defend her?” Loki asked. “I saw her look right at you when she did _hólmganga_ with La— Gnissa-Lady. She threatened you.”

“Perhaps it is my kindness, Loki-Prince,” Sigyn said, shrugging. “Whilst her actions have been cold in order to get to the position which she is in, it is what has been asked of her since she was born.”

“To gain the most powerful mate possible — I know. The same applies to you, though. You’re nobility.”  He stepped a fraction closer. “Why me? I am the Asgardian, remember?”

“Your position as prince still remains, Highness.”

“But you’re lowborn nobility. You could have walked away after your _hólmgangar_ , but yet you haven’t. _Why?_ ”

He’d caught her, and she knew it to judging by the way her eyes widened. “T-there is something, Highness,” she said finally. “Something that isn’t because of your position … or power.”

Loki grew wary, and his shoulders stiffened even more with her every word.

“I … I don’t know exactly what it is,” she said, “but — Oblivion, it sounds horrible even thinking it — but there is something about you that calls to me. Maybe it is because you’re different.”

“Different?” There was a threat of a challenge in his words, and Sigyn bit her lip.

“A difference that is hard to find amongst a single-minded people such as o— the jötnar.”

Loki hadn’t missed her hasty correction. She had been about to say _ours_. Our people. Dread clenched his gut. _She knew._ She knew how he thought of himself. Norns, she _knew_ —

“Single-mindedness can be exhausting,” he said, tamping down the urge to say something and so give strength to the weakness she had uncovered. “It is no different amongst the Æsir: honour, glory, and strength. Outsiders are shunned.”

“A real shame.” She drew a breath. “My prince, if it is not too rash for me to say so,” she said, “then may I say that there is something you see in myself as well. You saved my life, Your Highness.”

“I did,” Loki agreed, completely ignoring the first part. His mouth was very dry. “I have saved many lives, Sigyn.”

“You broke tradition to save mine,” she continued in a small voice.

“Breaking tradition can be considered a habit of mine. Kissing you, a lowborn noble, is breaking tradition, is it not?”

Sigyn hesitated before nodding. “I thank you for it, Your Highness. I enjoyed it.”

“I’m glad,” Loki said, and, oddly enough, he meant it. “Haera didn’t see your face, or your lines,” he continued. “I suggest that you not say a word. I think it best that you unbraid your hair when you return also.”

“Of course, and I can assure you that I will never tell,” Sigyn agreed, bringing her plait forward and undoing the rawhide cord. “But, Your Highness, why do you continue with this?”

“Pardon?” he asked.

She combed her fingers through her hair as she said, “This … juggling. Your life would be made easier if you would take a woman to bed and claim her with the _Krafa_. When she is claimed as such by you, then everything is over. She is granted the honour to be by your side until you wish to dispose of her, and whilst she stays, no one may woo you.”

“It is not of your concern about what I chose to do or not,” Loki growled.

Sigyn stopped in what she was doing and bowed. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I have overstepped my boundaries again.”

“You have done. But good day, Lady Bláinsdóttir. You must be hungry, and I will not delay you any longer.”

But Loki was certain she had guessed his reasons for his hesitation; he could see it in her eyes as he turned away and went back to the castle. He enjoyed her company, and he was already thinking through his schedule as he made his way back up the garden’s levels.


	22. Chapter Nineteen - The Parting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

“Your Majesty, how can you hide something like this? Prince Loki is alive.”

Thor looked at Hethinnson from under his brows, his patience thinning. It was well past midnight, and even hours after the ambassadorial party had returned, disbelief was flying amongst them all. Heimdallr had told Thor of the situation, that Loki had been shown — flaunted — in front of the party. So upon their arrival in the Observatory, all of them had been escorted quickly to the council chamber they were currently in. The doors were tightly sealed, both physically and with magic, so not a scrap of information might have left the place. The room was occupied by the ambassadorial party, the elder council, and Thor’s mother.

“My brother’s current predicament was hidden for peace,” Thor said finally.

“ _Peace?_ ” Hethinnson almost shouted at him, and the only reason Thor suspected that the ambassador had held his tongue in check was for whom he was talking to. “Pardon me, Your Majesty.”

Thor ignored him. “Tell me, Ambassador,” he started, “what are the frost giants to you?”

Hethinnson snorted. “Your Majesty, I know the answer you expect from me, and I stand by it: they are frost giants, lords of the rime and the cold. Monsters.”

“It is this attitude I wish to protect Loki from,” Thor said.

“Please, Your Majesty,” Kvasir said, “this is not a matter that can be dictated by personal motiva—”

“My father does not wish for another war!” Thor exclaimed. “I would dearly love to storm the realm and kill every last one of them, but at what cost? The lives of your families?”

“We have fought in wars against this enemy before, Your Majesty, and emerged triumphant,” Vidar said. “We have a reason to fight them.”

“And at what cost?” Frigga’s voice was so quiet many in the room hadn’t heard her. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she stood and came to the centre of the throng, chin held high, and her eyes full of fire. “Councilmen, you know your duties to the realms: stability. Unfortunately, against better judgement, the truth has been hidden for far too long. If war were to be declared, we would need a motivation to it, and a strong one as Asgard is such a powerful state.”

“My queen—” Vidar started, but Frigga held up her hand so to silence him.

“We have become hopelessly entangled in this lie. To reveal it now would prove politically disastrous, and one that would take decades, perhaps centuries, to fix. How would realms keep their trust in us when we have hidden such a great and terrible secret for over a millennium? No, revealing the truth would result in widespread discontent — rebellion, even.”

“Then we attack Jötunheimr under the pretext of taking the prince’s life,” someone said.

“I will not risk my son’s life in a war!” Frigga exclaimed. “Laufey has already been spared once, and it would be foolish to spare not only his life, but his family’s, again.” She stilled for a heartbeat. “No, if we are to resolve this situation with Jötunheimr, then it will be diplomatically.”

“Your Majesty, diplomacy has failed,” Hethinnson said, spreading his arms so to indicate the ambassadors on either side of him.

“You wish to give up after one try?” Frigga asked. She was shuddering with anger, and Thor also felt her frustration with the situation. “We shall try again, and if it again fails, then we shall try another method. I will be reunited with my son peacefully.”

“Why not recapture him?” Seaxneát said. “Jötunheimr would be powerless to act. We have their Casket, forces that far outnumber their own. They will be trampled.”

“And then risk our image with the other realms? Would you want them to see Asgard as brutish? Honourless? To shake our trust with our allies?”

“Then we say this attack was co-ordinated with King Thor’s knowledge.”

“No,” Frigga said. “It tells the people that His Majesty hasn’t the loyalty of his council. It would undermine him.”

“My queen,” Kvasir said, and he sounded tired, old. “I understand that you fear for Prince Loki’s health as well as our image—”

“I will not allow him to be used as a piece in a political game,” she hissed. “I swore it. I do not wish to harm him by forcibly retaking him.”

“My queen, as I am sure you are aware, politics have little room for emotions,” Vor said gently. “If you wish for your son to return to us and if Laufey will continue to refuse to co-operate, then this is all we can do.”

Eyes were sliding back to Thor now. He was rigid, and his mind was at war. The arguments presented by the councilmen and Hethinnson sounded sweet to his ears. With his deeply underlying rage towards the situation acting as the perfect kindling, there was very little reason Thor could see left but storming Jötunheimr with an army at his back to bring Loki home. But politics did not hold him back: it was memory. Memory of Loki’s hate. That, coupled with his mother’s arguments, stayed his hand. He would not have his brother hate him. Whatever resentment Loki held now would already take a long time to heal. He had seen the effects of trying to forcibly take Loki back as well. His mother was right — if this were to succeed, it had to be done diplomatically.

“I will take oaths of silence from everyone present,” Thor growled. He looked at the ambassadorial party, at the council members. “It is _vital_ for the peace to be kept. If news of this were to get out, it would result in riots. It would not matter to the people that the Allfather claimed Loki as his son. He lied to the cosmos about Loki’s blood. He didn’t declare him as a prisoner of war, nor as his ward. The divide of loyalty between my father and myself in Asgard will come together in a single unit of hatred if the truth is uncovered after so many months. We are in a golden age, and I would not want to see it end. Know that if so much as a whisper of this escapes, I will find whoever let the information slip and they will be punished.”

Shock was prevalent throughout the room.

“Your Majesty,” Vidar protested.

“Councilman Vidar, the king is right,” Forseti said. “To keep our reputation amongst the realms, this must be sorted out in the most diplomatic fashion possible. I suggest opening the realm to some traders, people who can be trusted not to say a word should they hear of Prince Loki.”

“So you would have us reward Jötunheimr, Councilman?” Hethinnson asked, disgusted.

“I would have the solution that would cause the least harm,” Forseti replied.

“And so if we are to go with this suggestion, Councilman?” Kvasir said to Forseti. “They’re merchants! Their loyalty is bought through coin, not patriotism. Someone will give one a bribe, and then there would be a leak.”

“Perhaps we should wait until the Allfather awakens,” someone interjected.

Thor had had enough. He slammed his fist into the table hard enough to make it jump. “I am your king!” he shouted over them all, and the room quieted at once. He stood and looked each person in the eye, daring them to say a word. “I am your king, and this is what we shall do. If you disagree, then you are to keep your thoughts to yourselves. Loki’s situation will not be spoken of to the public, including your friends, family, and anyone outside of this room. We will not go to war either, as my father so wishes, for you are right: I am only his regent.”

But the earlier points were still resounding in his ears. If things became dire, then Thor would storm Jötunheimr again, and damn his father’s wrath. “But I will take action if no other solutions can be found.

“Now leave. We have much to discuss in the morning.”

Low grumbles were present throughout the room as the people retreated, bowing to Thor and his mother in turn before leaving. Hethinnson was the last, and his bow was completed as quickly as social graces would allow. Soon, only Thor, Frigga, and Sif remained.

“Sif?” Thor asked.

She stepped forward, reaching into her cloak. What she drew out was a letter, and Thor recognised the cramped handwriting on it before she even said, “From Loki.”

Thor crossed the distance between them in three strides, almost snatching the letter away from her. It had been sealed with a touch of magic that broke when Thor opened the twice-folded page. It was short, and his heart dropped with every word. When he finished, his lips were tight, and a tremor shook him.

“Thor?” Frigga asked hesitantly.

He thrust the letter at her silently, movements jerky. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t breathe.

Thor looked to his mother. She brought a hand to her mouth, and the letter fell from her slack fingers as she collapsed against one of the tables. Thor had a hard time recalling another instance where she had cried so much.

* * *

#

* * *

_Thor,_

_I cannot write as much as I would like, and please do not write back._

_I want you to know that I am sorry for what happened between us, but I will refuse to bow to Asgard ever again — forgiveness is too hard a thing to ask of me. Bringing me back would create more problems than it would fix, and you need to understand that. Too much damage has been done to me to ever regain what we had between us, and possibly even too much to fix me._

_Please tell Mother of how sorry I am for everything._

_Brother, I implore you — do not send another diplomatic party. Laufey is still furious with Asgard for your attack and my taking, and things could end in death if so much as a whisper of Asgard’s presence is caught on Jötunheimr. It was nothing but dumb luck that you were not found out before, but it was a luck that was difficult to come by. And please, for every time I see Bifröst, I get such hope in my chest, and it will kill me soon. Thor, it’s all I can do to keep living. For the both of us_ _, Brother, you must let me go._

_—Loki_

* * *

#

* * *

 

 

It had been almost two months since that night had passed, and it had been two and a half since his father had fallen into the Sleep. Thor was growing anxious. It had been two and a half long and arduous months full of council meetings, dispute settling, trade arrangements, tax discussions, legal debates, and other pivotal tasks that bored him to misery. He also had to deal with skirmishes that had broken out across the realms, results of his new crowning and criminals wishing to dig their fingers into whatever slivers of grief the royal family had that could offer weakness to justice. It was important to emphasise, Vidar said, that despite the blows that the royal family had received over the past months, it did not mean Asgard’s strength had waned.

“The loss of your father and brother are not the only reasons for this,” Frigga said. “You are a new king, untried and inexperienced. They are testing your strength, and it is vital that you show them your teeth.”

But it was nothing compared to the length of time his father was sleeping for. Thor had seen Odin fall into his Sleep many times in the past, the longest one in his memory being for a week and a half, but two months … it was unheard of.

 _Mother warned me of this_ , Thor thought. He sighed heavily as he reached through the golden spells surrounding the Allfather as he slept, one hand on his shoulder; the rise and fall of his chest was a comfort. _As much as I have fought with him over the past months, I do not need the loss of two family members in such a short period._

And that, in turn, was beneath the priority that was Loki. Whenever he wasn’t needed as the king, he was in the library once again, this time with books of history, culture, law, and politics stacked around him.

_He has been there for five months now. Far too many._

“Thor.”

Thor didn’t look up from the book he was buried in. Regarding Jötunheimr, nothing had been done, his hand stayed by Loki’s letter. It had been yet another pressure on him, especially from the council.

“The people demand answers, my king.”

“Five hundred letters have come in the last week alone that urge you to wage war against Jötunheimr, Your Majesty.”

“If we listen to Laufey’s demands to leave their realm, we give the jötunns power. That cannot happen; we must keep them subdued and be present in their pathetic lives.”

“There have been rumours, my king, about Loki and a connection of some sorts to Jötunheimr. Someone might have let something slip.”

The fact that there were rumours circulating made Thor’s very blood run cold with the thought.

Sif sighed and clasped his shoulder. “Thor, you must stop.”

“Sif,” he said in warning, pulling his shoulder away.

“This isn’t healthy.”

“And Loki is hardly healthy on Jötunheimr.”

Sif jerked the book from his hands. “You have done all you can, Thor. Yes, Laufey refused your parley, but—”

“But nothing!” he said forcibly. Thor brandished Loki’s letter in her face and said, “He’s crying out for help, Sif, and I cannot ignore him.”

“You would really call war upon Asgard for him?” she asked.

“In a heartbeat.”

“Then you are a fool.”

Thor’s mouth fell open in protest, but Sif’s eyes flashed in warning. “Wars are fought with soldiers, and those soldiers will have brothers and sisters of their own. Would you take them away from each other to try to win back another’s brother? What if it were you who lost Loki in a war to take back the brother of the prince with whom you have never exchanged a word? Would you be willing to destroy families, Thor? Is your pain so much more important than theirs?”

“Would you if it were your sibling?” Thor countered.

“If you think selfishly only, then I have indeed fallen in love with a fool.”

Thor stared. Sif’s mouth was set into a stubborn line, and she crossed her arms. “Don’t let me regret what I just said. Do not listen to what your instincts say — listen to your head. You must as king. Nothing but blood will come of this if you still insist on charging into the realm with swords drawn and hammer held high.”

“Then what will that leave me with?” Thor asked, a hint of desperation cracking his voice. “What would it leave Loki with? He’s …”

“Loki is strong,” Sif said. “The council is doing everything they can, and driving yourself into the ground is not going to help anyone. Please, Thor. Stop for now. It is past midnight, and you need to retire.”

Thor looked towards the windows, just realising the sky was dark. He swallowed and took a deep breath. “Sif … love … I cannot leave Loki. You know of what the jötnar are like. And I can’t stop … I’m afraid that he’ll take the nature of the jötnar to heart and shape his behaviour accordingly,” Thor said. “My brother does not like to be different. Deep down he wishes to fit, to be normal, and will do anything to achieve that — when it was just us two, he was so different I cannot fully explain. He flogged himself to be more … _Æsir_ in the public eye.” Thor hated the way he’d worded that, but it was all he could think of to get his point across. “I am afraid that he will become a frost giant in action because the others are monsters. Yes, he is strong, and yes, he is a stubborn as they come, but everyone has a breaking point — even him.”

Thor took up the book she had slammed shut and rifled through the pages. It was one he had found stuffed at the back of a shelf — a tiny, dirty volume bound in flaking leather and most probably thousands of years old. The language was an ancient one he could barely read, having to rely on half-remembered lessons from his school years. “This details on the information of many of Jötunheimr’s key cultural aspects, and one of them is this … this event like a heat. Loki has always guarded himself in areas like sex, and I’m afraid something like this will drive him to do something extreme. Like there being … there being the possibility of taking his own life.”

“He wouldn’t,” Sif said quickly. “Loki wouldn’t. He’s not suicidal.”

“Not here, but there? The whole problem is that I don’t know anymore,” Thor said, trying to hide the distress in his voice. “He could be, especially after a revelation like this. Could you not see how desperate he had become when we went to Jötunheimr? And again, the proof of it is here in writing!” He brandished the letter a second time.

Every time Thor had looked at the letter, his heart panged at Loki’s not-quite neat script. The once tightly folded parchment, thick and heavy and surprisingly soft in his hands, now lay flat for how often he had opened it. He saw something muted of it in Sif’s eyes now.

“I cannot let anything like that happen, so if I must run myself into the ground to prevent it, then I will do so.”

“Thor, you need to sleep.” She grabbed him by the upper arm and hoisted him to his feet. “No more protesting, my king. You must rest. I will not lose two of you because of your idiocy.”

Thor, finally, stood of his own accord. He left all of the books on the table, apart from the ancient one he still held, and followed Sif out of the library.

They walked in silence through Valaskjalf, meeting no one but the night patrols. It seemed to be a long time until they arrived at his chambers. The hall was deserted, and Thor turned to Sif, gripping her hands in one of his own. “Thank you,” he said, rubbing a circle on the back with his thumb. He kissed her on the jaw, nothing more than a light brush of lips to her skin, but she turned her head, bringing her mouth to his.

Thor wrapped his arms around her back, pulling her closer to him. Sif pushed him back into the wall, running her hands through his hair. She smelt of fragrant summer flowers and polishing oil, and her hands were so warm, her lips so soft and held the slightest sweet tang of orange….

Thor grasped for the doorknob with his free hand.

Sif saw what he was doing, and she swallowed. “Thor, are you sure you want to do this now?”

“Do you?”

“I … Yes, yes I do, but Thor—”

“Then please, Sif. _Please._ ”

Thor found the doorknob, and they almost fell into his chambers, making slow progress to the bedroom.

* * *

#

* * *

“My king! The Allfather has awoken!”

Thor’s head shot up at the page’s breathless announcement. He was out of his seat at once, Gungnir clutched tightly in his grasp.

“This meeting is adjourned!” Thor declared, striding out of the council chambers. “Prepare for the return of the Allfather.”

He barged past the page and ran through the hallways to his father’s chambers, nothing of grace in his movements. Gungnir scraped against the wall and floors as he passed, but he didn’t care about the scratches he left.

 _Finally, finally_ , he thought. _I can’t do this for a minute more._

Footsteps hurried behind him — evidently, some of the council were as eager to see the Allfather as he was. He flew into the lift to the top floor, and the doors slid shut before any of the tailing council managed to get inside.

Thor’s thoughts whirled. His breath rang in his ears and his hands trembled slightly. He couldn’t get out of the lift fast enough when it opened. He ran down the corridor, skidding to a stop outside the Sleep chambers.

“Let me in,” he demanded. “Keep everyone else out.”

“Yes, my king.” The guards opened the door, and Thor strode in.

The only people in the room were Frigga, Eir, and Odin. He was still dressed in the clothes he wore for the Sleep, and he was shaky on his feet, leaning heavily on Frigga and Eir for support.

“Father.”

His father looked at him, and Thor let out a breath. His fingers loosened around Gungnir, and his shoulders slackened. The worry that had plagued him about his father’s condition was forgotten at once. He felt like a boy again greeting his father after a months’ long campaign on a distant realm.

“It’s good to see you’re awake,” he said in a croaky voice.

“How fare the realms?”

“Odin,” Frigga murmured, placing a hand on his chest, “perhaps politics is something to be discussed a little later.”

“Thor, how fare the realms?” Odin pressed.

“They fare well — I did not blow anything up for once,” Thor said, offering a smile. “Trade is booming, bonds are strong, and the realms are at peace with each other. It is nothing more than how you would wish it to be, Father.”

“There is something more,” Odin said after a few heartbeats’ silence.

Thor sighed and straightened his back. “I have made contact with Jötunheimr so to offer a negotiation of peace. I sent diplomats there.”

Odin was silent, and Frigga and Eir watched on, holding their breaths.

“You did _what_ in my Sleep?” Odin asked, his voice deceptively calm.

“I offered a parlay with Jötunheimr,” Thor said, lifting his chin. “Loki—”

“Still with Loki?”

Thor stared. “What are you talking about? ‘Still with Loki’?”

“Thor, you are to let this go; it is done,” Odin said.

“You … Father—”

“Enough.”

And then everything clicked horribly into place.

“That’s why you let it happen; why you’ve refused to have anything else to do with Jötunheimr,” Thor said. “You took Loki in the midst of battle, the prince of a hated people, and you saw the opportunity for control. You were lying through your teeth to me this whole time. You said he was a tool for peace, and he still is — still was. You didn’t give a damn about him, you never did!”

“No, I do ‘give a damn’ about him,” Odin said.

“To secure Jötunheimr! Come now, Father. The cat’s out of the bag, so why lie anymore?”

“Thor, you will listen to me. You are to close your mouth and not say another word!”

It was the assumed authority in Odin’s voice that made Thor obey. It did not matter that he was king, or that he held Gungnir. He was just a boy here.

“As king, you must learn to play a game, a game of politics. To know when to stand down, and when to rise and fight. War with Jötunheimr is the last thing I want, and by sending diplomats there when the wound of your assault is still fresh, you almost brought it upon our heads!” Odin’s voice had risen with every word, and by the end, he was shouting. “I had not done anything in regards to Jötunheimr because it was what I wanted! And I assume, through all of this, the truth of Loki’s blood has been brought to light with the council? _Well?_ ”

“I did what had to do for Loki!” Thor bellowed. “Despite everything that you wish for me to do, I refuse to let this go. Perhaps that is something you should have seen before you took him into our family. I don’t care if we share not a drop of blood — he is my brother!

“You’ve said it to me a thousand times already: he was meant to be a political tool, and unless you start to damn well show that you care about him, then I will continue to be convinced that you still see him as a key. A game, you said. If politics is so and this is your game, then I’m done playing along with you, Odin Allfather; I’m done with your game.”

Thor threw Gungnir on the floor, and Eir flinched as the spear crashed onto the tiles.

“You’ve taken Mjölnir from me, you’ve given me lashes — and please, give me some more if it offers you peace of mind — but nothing will change my course. I will have Loki back, Father, and I don’t give a damn about how long it will take. When you act like this, abandoning him to some undeserved fate in a realm full of beasts, how _dare_ you call yourself a father? Even to me. Or is that true? Am I also not of your blood?”

“Thor—!”

“Mother please,” Thor said, looking at her. “Please do not get involved in this. This is for _him_ to answer to. So what say you, _Father_?”

His father looked very weak, but the resolve in his eye was absolute. “You are my son as much as I am Allfather. Do not mistake my inaction for apathy towards Loki. Know that I care for him, that I love him.”

Thor shook his head, laughing bitterly before he pressed on, “He was damned from the moment you saw him — because of his blood. Loki the Liar … but of course: he only learnt from the best.”

“If we wished to be cruel as you are so suggesting, then why not tell Loki the truth from the beginning? It is love, boy, and though you may be blinded by grief, the truth of my words is that like stone, it is unmoving, and true.”

“Care … love. Your concepts of the thing are twisted if this is what you decide to do: leave him. No, what you love him for is for what he would have brought politically, and he cannot provide you that any more.

“You wish for peace, you wish for a legacy. Well this is your legacy!” Thor cried. “Your legacy is two estranged sons.”

“Thor, darling,” Frigga whispered, hurrying to him and throwing her arms around his neck. “Please do not speak like this. Please.”

“You don’t wish to hear the truth?” Thor asked.

He half expected her to slap him again, but she didn’t. Her lips were bloodless, and her eyes were wide.

“You are angry with our decisions, this I understand,” she said gently, “but please, Thor — my son, my blood — do not doubt our love.”

Thor sneered. “Some love this is.”

“Because we have not gone charging in? We have not sat quietly, Thor. Your father and I have been doing all we can — no, you will be silent this instant, Thor! — all we can do to see your brother home. But we have been doing so by playing a long game.”

“I see nothing of a long game.” He wrestled himself free from his mother’s grasp and stormed to the door. “As I said, I am done. Have your wretched crown, and content yourself with your quiet plans that will bring Loki no closer to home. I am finished.”

“Thor, you cannot—”

“I’m going to Vanaheimr, Mother,” Thor said quietly. “To get away from the madness of this place before it too can corrupt me as it has done you. Perhaps other family will see sense.” He threw the doors open, shouldering his way past the council outside. No doubt that they had heard much of what was going on within, and their whispered conversations died down at once. Thor ignored them all.

He went to his chambers, and when he glimpsed the sky outside the windows, they were storm-boiled and dark. His hands were shaking with anger as he pulled on the door rings. The hinges creaked from the force of his pull, and stone dust fell from the ceiling as he stomped into his chambers. His hunting bag was hung on the back of his chamber doors, and he grabbed it, going to the wardrobe and pulling out random handfuls of clothes. He stuffed everything he found into his bag until it could hold no more. After a moment of thought, he pulled his favourite battle-axe, Jarnbjorn, from the wall, as well as the leather ring to put it in when not in use. This he pulled over his head, and he put the axe into the holder to rest on his back.

Jarnbjorn was a huge, heavy thing, the blade as long as his torso and sharp enough to cut into diamond. It was the next best weapon he had after Mjölnir, and one he hadn’t used for decades, but it would suffice.

“Thor!”

“Leave, Fandral,” Thor barked.

“My friend, please calm—”

“‘Calm down’?” Thor yelled, rounding on Fandral and the others standing in the doorway. “You expect me to be calm in the face of this? Tell me how! I’m sick of everything here, of the apathy _they_ show to my brother!”

“There is no need to be so hasty.”

Thor swung his bag over his shoulder also and marched to the door. “Get out of my way,” he breathed, a promise of wrath in his voice.

“Thor, we’ll come—”

“No,” he hissed.

“We can be ready in five minutes.”

“I said, no. I need to … I need to be alone.” He adjusted his grip on the bag strap and moved past them all. Lightning cracked outside, and fat drops of rain began to fall against the windows. He made his way to his father’s study, opening the door and going inside.

Mjölnir sat near the desk, exactly where she had been when Odin had stripped her from him months ago. He held his hand out for the hammer, and although she gave a shiver in response, she did not move.

“Blasted—”

Thor put his pack down by the door and walked to Mjölnir. He wrapped his hand around the handle, heaving at her with all his strength. The marble cracked around his feet from the pressure, but Mjölnir didn’t move. She sat immobile, despite Thor’s best efforts. Eventually, he let her go, disappointment thrumming through him. He gave her one more, long look before he left.

He didn’t care about the rain that pounded down as he walked to the Himinbjörg Observatory. The Bridge was slippery, and it slowed Thor’s progress a bit.

“You thought you were going to leave without saying any kind of farewell?”

He looked up. Sif was coming towards him, riding her stallion. A pack, equal in size to Thor’s, was over the horse’s flanks.

Thor scowled. “I wasn’t thinking,” he said stiffly. “I’m—”

“Angry?” Sif looked to the sky. “Figured that one myself. Now come on — climb on.”

Thor hesitated before he pulled himself up behind Sif. Sif shot him a smile before she kicked the stallion in the sides. The horse jumped forward, trotting up the Bridge with careful steps.

“So your father woke,” Sif said.

“Aye,” Thor almost spit. “I wish he hadn’t.”

He felt her sigh, and he buried his face into her neck, tasting the raindrops on her skin. “You’re coming to Vanaheimr.” It was a statement rather than a question.

Sif hummed in affirmation, pulling on the reins when they spotted Heimdallr through the sheets of rain. The Watchman stood just under the lip of the Observatory’s roof, golden eyes unblinking as Thor and Sif dismounted.

“Your parents are upset,” Heimdallr said to Thor as he passed.

Thor snorted. “Let them be. Send us to Vanaheimr, Heimdallr.”

Thor had little regret in his mind as Bifröst shot him and Sif through the cosmos to the lush forests of Vanaheimr.


	23. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

**1604 A.D.**

“Mother! Mother!”

The chamber doors flew open as Thor burst into the room, his hair wild and mussed from sleep, and his eyes wide with alarm.

Frigga stood swiftly from where she was seated before her loom and hurried to her son. She no longer had to crouch before him — he stood at the same height as her, now. She took his hand in hers; it was damp with sweat. “Thor? What is it? What is wrong?”

“Loki,” Thor whispered. “He—”

Frigga needed to hear nothing more. She hoisted her skirts around her knees and ran. Her sweaty hair was stuck to the back of her neck, and the air was hot and heavy with summer. A heatwave had descended upon Asgard three days prior, and for the Æsir, it had offered respite and a period of relaxation. The days had slipped by lazily, and everyone had enjoyed it.

Everyone but Loki.

Thor ran before her, his long hair flying behind him as he led the way back to the chambers he was fast outgrowing. The doors were wide open, and Frigga flew inside. The furs and sheets had been stripped off the bed and lay in a messy pile on the floor. The windows were thrown wide, and the cooler night air flooded the room, heavy with humidity. Huddled on the bay window was Loki.

He was bare chested, the bottoms of his breeches rolled up to his knees, and his short hair dripping. He was shaking uncontrollably.

She ran to him. “Loki.”

“I’m fine! I’m fine!” Loki insisted, pushing Frigga away. “Thor, you idiot! I told you I’m fine!”

But it had been clear to Frigga from the moment she had spied him he was anything but fine. He was sweating profusely, pressed against the wall as he tried to back away from her. His skin was clammy and snow pale, and his eyes were sunken and ringed with dark shadows. But the thing that stole her attention was the blood that dripped down his front. Loki’s hand was held to his nose in an effort to hide it.

“Loki, let me see,” Frigga commanded.

He took his hand away reluctantly, his eyes wary. “Don’t tell Father,” he whispered. “Please don’t tell him.”

“I won’t,” Frigga assured him.

He smiled at her before his hand flew to his mouth. His throat convulsed as he fought back a mouthful of vomit.

“Oh, my son.” She put her hand on his back, rubbing circles. Thor hovered a little behind her, question burning in his eyes.

“Come, Loki,” Frigga whispered. An idea had come to her — a wild, ridiculous idea, but it was what would offer Loki immediate relief. He was too hot, losing too much water.

“Where?” Loki asked, quivering. “Not the healing wing.”

“No,” Frigga said gently. “Come.”

Loki stood on shaking legs.

“Mother, what can I do?” Thor asked, hushed.

“Go back to sleep, my love,” Frigga said, brushing his fringe from his eyes. “I’ll take care of Loki.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

A smile flooded with relief crossed Thor’s face. He stood in front of Loki, an easy smile on his face. “Well, Brother, see you in the morning.”

“Go away,” Loki muttered darkly.

Hurt flashed in Thor’s eyes.

Frigga caressed Thor’s face before she directed Loki towards the door. As soon as they were outside, Loki slumped against the wall, panting heavily. He turned his face away from Frigga, shaking.

“Why am I like this?” he asked bitterly. “It’s just a heatwave. It’s nothing. It’s nothing….”

“Shh now. Nothing is wrong with you, Loki,” Frigga said.

“But Thor—”

“You are not Thor, my love, much like Thor is not you.”

Loki looked at her, a wounded pride shining in his eyes.

But Frigga continued, undeterred, “You are just as talented as Thor, but in different ways. It means that I love you no less, Loki, and I want you to remember that. You are my son.”

“Where’re you taking me?”

“Somewhere colder.”

Loki smiled, shoulders slumping in relief at her promise, and Frigga started down the hallway. Loki hurried to keep up with her.

They had to stop a few times for Loki to rest, his head spinning, and his stomach twisting knots. Frigga waited for him patiently, concern thrumming through her.

They went far beneath Valaskjalf’s patrol routes, keeping out of sight from the guards by concealing themselves in shadows and with glamours. The further they went into the cool underbelly of Asgard, the more Loki recovered. Colour began to come back to his face, his cheeks becoming ruddier until they stood outside the Weapon’s Vault. Loki’s eyes were wide with sudden comprehension as Frigga waved for the doors to open.

The Vault was silent, the only movement coming from the reflections of water thrown onto the walls. Loki’s eyes had snapped to the Casket at the end of the room and he stumbled forward. Frigga remained on the steps.

“Yet another good thing about taking the frost giants’ treasure,” Loki said over his shoulder, voice light and joking. “The perfect cooling system for hot summer nights.”

Frigga gave a smile as Loki sat with his back against the pedestal, his too-narrow chest rose and fell easily with the winter chill. He was so young ….

“Can you hear it?” Loki whispered, bringing Frigga forth from her thoughts. His eyes were closed, and his head rested against the pedestal; his forehead dripped with cool sweat. “Thor says he never hears anything, but I know the Casket has voices. They’re singing.”

Frigga couldn’t hear anything but her own breathing and Loki’s shallow pants.

“Yes, yes I can hear them,” she lied.

“I knew it.” Loki shifted his weight and mumbled, “Do you not think it is a strange thought that monsters could have made something as fascinating as this?”

“They are not monsters, my love,” Frigga sighed, coming down the steps towards him. Every time she had said it to both of her sons over the centuries, she tried to convince herself of it as well. It was a hard thing to do.

“Laufey tore Father’s eye out,” Loki said matter-of-factly. “He tore it out with his claws coated in frost and winter — Father showed us the scars.”

“Yes, Laufey did,” Frigga said simply, “but that does not make him a monster.”

Loki remained silent, but Frigga knew better than to think she had changed Loki’s mind. He was tired of arguing the point with her, and she was too worried about his health to fight the battle. They were going to have a talk later, she promised herself — a very long talk.

Frigga cupped his face and carefully touched Loki’s magic with her own so not to startle him, but he was too exhausted and heat bothered to notice her light caress. As soon as her magic came into contact with his, her ears were filled with music — singing.

_Líka._

_Gefa nú við ykkarr Hjarta._

_Eða Vér munu syngva svellinn, Þjóðann Efst._

And beneath it all, a deep, base throb that Loki unknowingly clutched at. It froze her soul.

She looked to the Casket in wonder before she pursed her lips. “Loki, my love,” she whispered. “I will fetch Eir, but it is important you touch nothing whilst I am gone. Promise me.”

“Yes, Mother,” mumbled Loki, leaning into her touch. A tiny purr came from his throat then, something that lasted a split second before it stopped. Loki swallowed and said, a little louder than necessary perhaps in an effort to cover the noise, “I promise.”

_Frigga kissed his forehead before she stood. She did not want Loki near the Casket anymore, and if she had the choice, she never wanted it near him again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the plot will speed up; we're past the boring bit. I promise. Talking of that, I'll aim to update every couple of weeks on the Monday my time. I have a substantial buffer now, so it should work well as I now have Uni and a job to juggle as well as writing.
> 
> Thanks!


	24. Chapter Twenty - Nóttvísa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

As the Nóttvísa drew closer, Loki grew more and more panicked. The very idea of it was a fever that had gripped the jötnar, and it didn’t help that he had no idea what it expect of it.

“It’s indescribable,” Angrboða told him when he asked her three weeks before the start of the event. She put a hand to her chest, the other waving Loki away to another wall as a troop of servants carrying some kind of long box came past. “It’s like an echo in the mind. It’s bliss.”

But it was one of the reasons why Loki was so terrified of the coming Nóttvísa — it would make him feel _good_.

“You’ll have your duties to fulfil,” she continued over the howl of the gale outside, “but you’ve been told of those already, I suspect.”

“I’m not ignorant about my part,” he said, clipped. He didn’t want to admit he was nervous — very much so — but he thought Angrboða had already guessed that for herself.

“Then you’ll know that your actions will be instinctual.”

What she forgot to say, and what Loki added silently, was _of a kind_. Apparently, it would be instinct on one level, and on another, it would be something much closer to what he could only equate to as mental manipulation by … _something_. Something he couldn’t fully understand, no matter how much he researched it. It was, gathering from the sources he’d accumulated, something he would have to experience. Loki was in the unique position of being the only jötunn in history that had never experienced a Nóttvísa at this age — it was a position he despised. After all, why would the jötnar, writing for a jötunn audience, bother explaining something even the smallest child knew?

He drew his cloak tighter around himself and sighed, breath clouding on the frigid, deep winter air. “I’ve heard something a little different,” he said. “Blood on the tongue.” It was something Sigyn had told him when he had asked her after spending nights wrestling with himself on whether or not he should ask.

“Aye,” Angrboða said, drumming her fingers on her arms. “I’ve told you about it before. It’s a hallucinogen — the blood is riddled with magic, and as such needs to be diluted. Mixing it is a precise art — too little, and it has little effect, or too much, and it’s overpowering. It opens the mind more. It lets in the Voice of Jötunheimr.”

Loki was certain she hadn’t told him about it before, but he said nothing; he already looked his ignorance with all the questions he was asking.

Loki shook his head.

“You worry unnecessarily, Loki,” she said.

 _Unnecessarily?_ he thought, shivering. _To submit to this alien thing?_

Unnecessary to the extent he shouldn’t be losing hours of sleep? That it would mean giving up one of the only things he had left to him to retain some shred of his identity?

He closed his eyes and said, “Ange, shut up.”

“Well, pardon me,” she said stonily.

To change the topic, Loki asked, “Járnsaxa’s coming. When?”

“Tomorrow,” Angrboða said, frowning.

“Good.” _You can get off my back._  “How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

“Five months.” A keen sounded low in the back of her throat, and she shivered in anticipation. “It’s always the last day that is the longest.”

“Indeed.” Loki said, “I should go. I have an appointment.”

“An appointment? For what? With whom?”

“Something which is entirely duty driven and of no interest to you,” Loki said. “Farewell. I’ll see you later.”

* * *

#

* * *

Útgarðar was bursting with life, even more than it had been when Loki had returned to the realm. Thousands of jötnar were pouring in from every direction, jamming the streets with supplies and belongings loaded on káshtar backs, of adults tugging along scores of young children, of direwolf-like creatures running underfoot, and a dozen other distractions and difficulties.

“They look so weak,” Loki murmured, more so to himself as he looked out from the bay window next to his bed.

It was true. In the castle, the jötnar he had seen were healthy enough, but those below him … the majority of them were nothing but skin and bone.

Loki squeezed his eyes shut and resting his chin on his knees, hugging himself. It was strange, seeing the jötnar in something like a joyous state. They couldn’t be. There was nothing of joy in their lives. They were starving, trapped on a dying planet, under the rule of a lunatic — a monster. _But_ , he thought, _can a monster be monstrous to others of its kind?_

“Loki.”

It was Fárbauti, and he snorted. “What?” he muttered to his knees. “Leave me.”

“We need you,” she said from the door. “We’re to discuss what will happen during the next week.”

“You can discuss it without me,” Loki said. “I’m sure you’re smart enough to do that yourself. Unless you wish for me to contribute some of my charming personality.”

“I insist you come.”

“Well I insist that I stay right here.” He finally lifted his head just enough to turn and glare at her. “You can discuss your pressing issues and urgent matters without me. I’m not interested.”

“The preparation for the Nóttvísa is something you can’t miss.”

“I’ve missed it so many years already, I don’t think one more, nor even ten or a hundred, will make a difference at this point.”

Fárbauti hesitated a few seconds longer, but then she turned and left. Loki sighed and flicked his wrist. The doors boomed shut, and he trained his gaze on the jötnar below again.

But to his outrage, the door opened again a couple of minutes later, and it was not just Fárbauti who returned, but Helblindi, Býleistr, and even Laufey.

Loki leapt to his feet. “Get out,” he snarled.

“We need to talk,” Fárbauti said. “You said you were not leaving, so I have brought the discussion here. Shut the door please, Býleistr.”

Býleistr slammed it.

Fárbauti seated herself comfortably on the foot of the bed, and Loki had half a mind to march up to her and snap his teeth in her face to encourage her to leave, perhaps with a few choice swear words to hurry her along.

“So,” Fárbauti said, turning to address Laufey before Loki could act, “I believe Vafþrúðnir said that this Nóttvísa has pulled in the largest numbers we’ve seen for almost six centuries.”

“Aye,” Laufey said, casting Loki a glance. “Fifty thousand.”

Býleistr let out a low whistle, but Loki honestly couldn’t see what was so impressive about that number. During some of the summer games in Asgard, the main ground could host twice that number easily.

“Because of the circumstances that surround us this year, the events of the Nóttvísa will be slightly different,” Fárbauti continued, her gaze resting on Loki. “Vafþrúðnir has suggested that we are to walk first, so show the people the five of us as one.”

Loki swore under his breath; although he had no idea was the ‘walk’ consisted of, he had a fairly brilliant stab in the dark that it meant walking somewhere in public, most likely in a ceremony, with his blood kin — two things he had no wish to do.

“Is that the only different thing?” Helblindi asked, jumping up onto the bed and wrapping at least half the furs around his shoulders.

“Yes.”

“We’re getting ready at the Temple?”

“Yes.”

“ _Urgh_.” Helblindi fell on his back and whined, “But it’s cold there.”

“It’s cold everywhere, ‘Blindi,” Býleistr said. “It’s winter.”

“Well, it’s _really_ cold there.”

“If the _goðar_ are fine, you’ll be fine.”

“Hush now,” Fárbauti said, pulling Helblindi back up into a sitting position. “It’s just for one night.”

Helblindi huffed before he said, “Fine….”

“Is that all?” Loki asked, passing a hand over his face. “Get out.”

“We’re not finished yet.” Laufey stood in front of him, crossing his arms. “You’re to listen to me and remember. The Nóttvísa is the most important night of the year, and I want nothing more than for it to go smoothly—”

“And I am to toe the line or you shall so swear to Oblivious you’ll rip me to shreds, yes, I get it. Evidently I understand if I can parrot your demands back.”

Laufey narrowed his eyes, but Loki stared calmly back at him, waiting for a further answer.

“What’s a parroting?” Helblindi piped up from behind. “And Loki, it’s _Oblivion_ , not _Oblivious_.”

Loki had the distinct feeling Helblindi had said something just to break the tension in the room. He had to appreciate the boy’s tact, even if it had resulted in a lick of humiliation. But it wasn’t as if he had gotten the name wrong by accident — it had been an unsuccessful attempt to wind Laufey up. “I’ll remember for next time,” Loki said, not breaking eye contact with Laufey. Then he walked away, wrenching the door open. “Remember to shut the door when you are so gracious enough to finally leave,” he said over his shoulder tersely.

He had to go and meet Thorn anyway, for Haera had stopped talking to him after the incident with Sigyn and he still needed someone to, essentially, court. The story had spread like wildfire, and accusations had been flying around about who it was Loki had kissed. The three she-jötnar he had named had been harassed the most, and, much to his disappointment, Sigyn had been too.

Loki felt it time to immerse himself in something like courting to wash clean the memories of the past few minutes from his mind.

“Your Highness,” Thorn said when he met her at the corridor juncture to the royal wing.

“Thorn.” He held his cloak out, inviting her in. He’d learnt his lesson from last time — he had to lead Thorn on so she wouldn’t do anything as drastic as Haera had. It was working, but the question was for how long. Again, just like it was for the Nóttvísa, time was running out. His _kyn_ was drawing closer, and he was even more panicked about that than the Night Song.

_But one thing at a time._

“There’s a tome that I found in the library that I thought would be of some interest to you,” Thorn said, steering him along. The sapphires in her hair clinked with their every step. “It details on little known magicks and it’s quite fascinating. For example, there’s a spell that can trap the air in one’s lungs and so suffocate them, or another that elaborates on a _kyssa dau_ _ði_ — a death kiss.”

“That would be a rather unconventional way to kill someone.”

“Indeed. Would you like to see this gruesome tome?”

The corner of Loki’s mouth twitched up in a half-smile. “If you give me the honour.”

* * *

#

* * *

The final two weeks dragged by. More jötnar poured into Útgarðar, ones belonging to richer families and Houses that could afford to come just nights before the Nóttvísa, not having to fight for accommodation. Loki often lay awake into the early hours of the day, kept up by the noise outside — by the chants, songs, drums, returned hunters, and general merriment.

Nine nights before the Nóttvísa, everyone who was to come to Útgarðar for the event had arrived. It was also the first night of the preceding festivities.

“Rise, Your Highness.”

Loki cracked open an eye as Bryja came into the room. He was hardly in the mood for any kind of preparation for the Nóttvísa.

“Leave me,” he said, rolling to his other side and pulling the furs as best he could over his head. Norns, it was tonight. He wasn’t ready; he didn’t feel it.

“I insist you rise, Your Highness.”

“Go away.”

He swore he heard her mutter, “They’re always so lazy at this age,” before the furs were drawn back and yanked off the bed.

Loki, who hadn’t been expecting her to be so petulant, snatched the furs back before she could expose his body, as all he wore was a twist of undercloth.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but by order of the king, you must rise.”

Loki said, “The king can stuff his order up his icy arse,” under his breath.

“Your Highness, please. I—”

But before Bryja could finish, the breath was driven out of Loki as Helblindi jumped onto the bed, digging a knee into Loki’s stomach. “Come on, come on!”

Loki grabbed a pillow from behind his head and whacked Helblindi with it as hard as he could. Helblindi let out an indignant “Ow!” before he scrambled behind Loki and wedged himself under his back to force him into a sitting position.

“Gotta,” Helblindi huffed, his feet flat against the headboard, “get … _up_!”

Loki was eventually pried out of the bed, and he was soon trudging down the castle’s main staircase behind Helblindi, quivering minutely. He inwardly chastised himself for being so twitchy and nervous, but the simple fact was he couldn’t help it. This was just the beginning of nearly three long weeks.

The caverns were deserted, but Loki kept on the lookout for anything that might take him by surprise, anything at all that could present some sort of threat to him. He wasn’t taken to the bathing cavern, but to one near it. Laufey, Fárbauti, and Býleistr were already there, and Loki froze in the doorway. Each was nearly naked, apart from their undercloth. Two jötnar rubbed each of their bodies down with, what Loki thought, was oil.

Two stepped up to Loki at once, dipping their heads. “Come, my prince.”

Loki, once again, had no choice but to follow.

He faced away from the others, closing his eyes as warm oil was lathered over his skin. It felt nice, even relaxing, to a degree, but the part of his mind that acknowledged that was drowned in the flood of repulsion he predominantly felt. He was tense the entire time, even when he was told to lay down on a bench so to better tend to him. Gold leaf was pressed onto his horns, and whilst the oil was being rubbed across his skin, an artisan cut patterns into the leaf with a tiny pick of bone. When it was done nearly an hour later, Loki was quick to wrap the offered fur around himself and hunch by the wall, breathing deeply through his nose as his hair was put into an intricate braid.

He was then free to wash, but instructed to keep his head above the water.

“Just what was the point of that?” he growled to himself as he scrubbed his arms down.

“Sire says it’s a ‘ritual cleansing’,” Helblindi said in a deliberately poor imitation of Laufey. For the first time since Loki had met him, Helblindi’s long hair wasn’t hanging around his arse, but instead piled carefully, and with a great amount of skill, atop his head. “This is the boring bit, but once it’s finished, it gets much better. But, I mean, Sire still has king stuff to do, but we can do what we want. Go outside the castle walls and stuff.”

When Loki came back to his chambers, it was to find his clothes had already been laid out — they consisted of a new _kjilt_ of white fur and elaborate metal pteruges, his lightweight ceremonial armour, and a new gold armband stylised like a coiled dragon. He put them on, only needing help with the armour for his back, but once he got a look at himself in the mirror, Loki thought himself to be very shiny. The thought reminded him of Asgard, of the gilded halls and splendid statues of Búri’s line. He did his best to push the thought from his mind at once.

“My prince,” Bryja said just outside his chamber doors, “the Lady Fyrnisdóttir waits for you.”

_How presumptuous of her._

“Thank you,” he said. He did his best not to stomp down to the solar. Thorn was waiting for him, sprawled out on the best couch and putting cadameir leaves on her tongue. She too was wearing what Loki assumed to be her best.

“My prince,” she said with a throaty purr, “you look ravishing.”

Loki merely hummed, holding his hand for her. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet. “Where to?” he asked.

“How do you like stories?”

“Well enough.”

“Then I know just where to go. Come. There’s an event on the Temple steps at midnight. Besides, there’s a stall that sells sweet drops I find particularly delectable.”

Loki had not stepped foot outside the castle and its grounds since he had gone to see Thor. He had never wondered about the city of Útgarðar itself, and he still found he didn’t really want to — to go there, much less think about, being surrounded by _them_.

“What kind of story is it?”

“One of Jötunheimr’s ancient stories,” Thorn said as the front doors to the castle opened, “about a woman who ran with the wolves through the Night Forests, and eventually she became their queen. She mated with their strongest to produce something half wolf, half jötunn. Her daughter united the Children of Ice during the time of the change, leading them through the perils created by the other jötnar — the jötnar of the storm, the jötnar of the mountains, of the waters and valleys and the far west winds — to our motherland, the Fyrstamsálfu. She won the Fyrstamsálfu by killing its beast king and taking his horns, starting the royal line.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Her name is sacred, and so belongs with Oblivion. We shall be whispered it when we are worthy. That was the story when things like the old religions were held in higher regard. Her name was simply forgotten when we stopped looking for the Entities to give our life answers and meaning, and started looking down to figure it out for ourselves.”

“And how powerful her people have grown because of it,” Loki murmured. He was thinking of the war of conquest Laufey had led a millennium ago, and how the destruction had spread to Midgardr.

The snow crunched underfoot as they made their way through the frigid air, their breath freezing on the wind to fall crystallised at their feet. The road they walked from the castle led directly to the city of Útgarðar itself, and as they progressed further and further along, they came upon more and more poverty. Loki felt very self-conscious as jötnar stopped to stare at him and Thorn, mutters rippling through the crowds as they gathered around.

“Þjóðann týndur,” they said. “Þjóðann aftur.” Lost prince. Returned prince.

He couldn’t stop looking at them, at their eyes sunken and bellies concaved — some were instead bloated from protein deficiency. He couldn’t help but see their thin, stick-like limbs and mouths full of broken teeth. See their cripples and sick, at the bastards who had no heritage lines. See the squalor and the judgement given by the Allfather’s hand.

No — by Laufey’s. They deserved it. They were jötnar, monsters to the end. Laufey had led them in war, led them to defeat. Asgard had stepped in to defend the realms. This was Laufey’s fault.

“If we don’t hurry, the drops will be sold out,” Thorn said. She ignored the crowds as she pushed through them, pulling Loki along behind her.

The drops weren’t gone. They were sold from the back of a sled that had come from near Þrymheimr, the jötunn old and withered and blind in one eye. Thorn bought two tiny pouches, pressing one of the sapphires from her hair into the jötunn’s palm — much to his delight — before passing one of the bags to Loki. What was inside were tiny drops of sweetened snow that dissolved on the tongue. They went to the Temple steps as they ate them, sitting near the front of the crowd to properly see the show.

A young she-jötunn came onto the steps with nothing but a direwolf pelt draped over her back. The glinting teeth framed her face as she lifted her head and howled at the stars. And Loki sat, head tilted to the side, merely watching.

* * *

#

* * *

Many things like what Loki had witnessed the first night happened leading to the aphelion of Jötunheimr, the beginning of the Nóttvísa proper. And in that time, Loki was exposed to much of, what was undoubtedly, culture. He was told of stories, of myths and legends, of tales and sagas detailing heroics and heartbreak and war that could not help but sometimes move him to unwanted emotion. He was introduced to beliefs and the scraps of the ancient religion of the realm, and the hard, practical one that had replaced it.

“They are the Entities.”

“Oblivion?”

It was well past sunrise, but Loki was still awake, legs dangling over the lowest balcony belonging to the garður af íss. Sigyn sat next to him, half shrouded in shadow and looking into the abyss beneath them. There were few moments he could make to see her now, and he found himself craving them, for he could shut out Jötunheimr as he had done for the past few months. He could pretend nothing mattered, pretend that he wasn’t terrified he was beginning to change, to _feel_ something for the realm and its inhabitants as a large.

“They are the basic truths of the universe,” Sigyn said, scratching a pattern into the balustrade their legs were threaded through. “The universe will last for Eternity, no matter if Yggdrasil falls a hundred million times in a hundred billion years. The number of possibilities life can take is the very concept of Infinity, and we pave our ways through this infinity by making the choices that shape us as individuals. Death is something that hangs over all of us, for we will all surely die one night, whether it be tonight, tomorrow, or five thousand years from now. And Oblivion is the end of our journey, where life finally lets us go to be free of obligation. It’s a practical view; the jötnar have not been able to afford anything more luxurious for a long while.” She looked at him and asked, “What of your Norns?”

“They weave our fates,” Loki said. “They can see the time dimension, can manipulate it.” At Sigyn’s puzzled look, he continued, “Time is a dimension just as space, the dimension we exist in, is, and therefore our fates are always determined. That is to say, we can see only a single moment of our lives at a time, but we forever exist in every state, visible and invisible both. We’ve — Asgard, I mean — always found comfort in knowing that our lives have already been played out. It makes it easier on some. Rather opposite to your Infinity.”

“Yes.” Sigyn swung her legs back and forth, and Loki was pleased to see that the scar from her fight against Glut was barely visible. “The way I see it, there are infinite routes your life can take, and different realities that can spring up when, in another time, you make a different decision to the one you’ve consciously made. Your Norns and time dimensions shackle you,” she said. “You’re unable to choose your own path in life, for everything has already been decided for you.”

“You could say the same for your Infinity. Too much free will is a dangerous thing.”

“It is … how do you say it? _Blasphemous_ to look into the future,” Sigyn said. Then she frowned. “I’m sorry; I don’t have the right word for it….”

“Despised?” Loki asked. “Unhallowed?”

“Not tolerated,” Sigyn said finally. “It means we are confined, and we do not deal well with confined spaces as a people. We are creatures born to roam — the ice, the realms, our fates. It is our very blo—”

The last word was drowned out by the deep, echoing note of what Loki first thought was a warhorn sounding over Útgarðar, and the two of them looked back to the castle at the same moment. A drumbeat followed it some seconds later.

“What was that?” Loki asked, a little too sharply.

“It means it is time,” was Sigyn’s reply. “Sleep now.”

Loki’s breath stopped, and his chest tightened. _The Temple. The Nóttvísa._

Sigyn stood. “My family,” she said, “I-I have to meet them, as I’m sure you must meet yours. I hope we can meet another time, Your Highness.”

Sigyn almost bounded up the stairs in her haste, but Loki sat there, staring into space, and half-debating about whether he should disappear for the Nóttvísa or grit his teeth and get on with it. His decision was made for him when a page came rushing down the stairs to collect him with a breathless pant of, “The king awaits, Your Highness.”

Loki got to his feet and made his way towards the stairs as the horn sounded and drum beat again. He was shuddering, and blessed the fact that his cloak was pulled around him so to hide it; if anyone saw, they might have thought he was only cold.

_I don_ _’t want anything dictating my actions. What about this Infinity? Free will?_

Hel, he didn’t hold stock in these _Entities_. He must have been desperate if he was looking to jötunn logic to spare him from the Nóttvísa.

 _How can you_ _complain like this?_ a snide voice in his head asked. He flinched. _Coward._

He felt sick to the stomach, mind screaming with anxiety. He couldn’t do this he couldn’t—

It wasn’t stubbornness on his part now for not wanting the Nóttvísa — it was fear that he would surrender.

“Loki, you took your time.”

Loki blinked, taking a deep breath and focusing on Helblindi. He stood next to Fárbauti, his face shining with excitement. “I was busy,” Loki said.

Laufey’s breath rumbled deep within his chest. He gestured for Loki to join them, eyeing him in an almost suspicious way. Loki’s cloak was taken from his shoulders, and he shivered at the temperature. His hands jumped automatically to his arms to warm them.

“It is late,” said Fárbauti. “Let us go.”

The castle staff was lined up in neat rows in the entrance hall, and each of them was silent. They all wore their best things, their heads bowed in respect as the royal family walked the isle through them and then outside. The main road was likewise packed, leaving a single path that wound to the Temple with its shattered spires.

_Just move. Move._

If he stopped, Loki knew that he wouldn’t be able to start again. He kept his eyes resolutely fixed on Býleistr’s shoulders.

“Konungr!”

The almost eerie silence was suddenly broken. “Konungr! Dróttning! Þjóðanar!” The once passive crowds surged forward, stretching their fingers towards them all. Loki noticed many of them came for him.

 _What are they doing?_ he thought, panicked as they touched his skin before bringing their fingers to their tongues. He growled, but they ignored him.

“Loki, stop,” Helblindi whispered furiously. The jötnar were reaching for him, too.

“What’s happening?” Loki asked, twitching when someone poked his cheek painfully.

“We are the realm’s strongest, and the people want to taste our power, to hope that they too can become as strong as us.”

 _Well it_ _’s fucking_ weird _,_ Loki thought frantically.

As they came closer towards the Temple, Loki’s nerves were afire. He tried not to appear affected by it, but in all truth, he was disturbed. The nobility were gathered closer to the Temple steps, and he saw many of the she-jötnar who were or had sought for his attentions amongst them. He saw Haera standing with her family, Thorn with her father, Angrboða with her arm curled around another she-jötunn’s shoulders — this he assumed to be Járnsaxa, her mate — and he saw Sigyn and her family — seven of them altogether, including a newborn. On the Temple steps, he saw the _goðar_. There were perhaps two-dozen, male and female, and heading them was Skrýmir-Goði.

His voice must have been magically altered, for when he spoke to the crowds, Loki heard it as though he were standing right next to him when he was at least thirty feet away:

“Rest. Sleep today knowing that when you awake, you will be singing.”

_What?_

Laufey led them inside, and Loki lurched as he followed the king. Helblindi had been right, he thought — it was _freezing_. The Temple was huge, the ceiling arching overhead. It was damaged, and badly. Beautiful, complex patterns and stone carvings were broken by missing chunks of rock, and statues of ancient origins depicting deities he didn’t recognise had been obliterated by war. Stone bridges suspended in the space stretched from wall to wall, illuminated with ghostly blue fire, and staircases led up to the twin spires. Loki was awed by the place.

No one else, however, seemed much interested in the sights. “Your room has been prepared,” Skrýmir said, talking his staff in hand and leading them deeper into the Temple.

 _Room?_ Room — singular.

Skrýmir beckoned them up a couple of flights of stairs, and the room he led them to was just as decorated as the entrance. High windows had been set into the wall opposite the door, weak sunlight streaming into the space. In the centre of the room was a sunken pit filled with furs.

“Rest well, Your Majesties, Highnesses,” Skrýmir said, bowing himself out.

As soon as he was gone, Loki let out a full-body shudder; he could still feel fingers poking at him. He wanted his cloak, but Hel knew where it was now.

“I’m in the middle!” Helblindi jumped into the pit, scrambling to the centre before he stretched and shut his eyes. Fárbauti laughed softly before she followed him, stepping in and pulling one of the best furs over him. She pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead, and Helblindi gave a little groan of exasperation before they rubbed their cheeks together. Loki scowled and stomped to the pit, snatching up two of the better furs and retreating to the wall. They all looked at him as he wrapped one of the furs tightly around himself and folded the other into a pillow. He put his back to them before laying down, glaring at the wall and trying his damned hardest not to shiver.

Footsteps came from behind, and he pulled his lip up to snarl, but before he could do so, someone was laying another fur over him.

“It gets cold,” Fárbauti said gently.

Loki said nothing. When she went away, he relaxed a fraction.

“Why indulge his behaviour?” he heard Býleistr say. “It will just breed more like it.”

“Hush, love,” Fárbauti whispered. “If your brother wants his space, then let him have it. Forcing him to do what he does not want will only bring harm. This will require small steps.”

_You_ _’ve already brought harm. So much of it._

* * *

#

* * *

Fárbauti had been right — it was achingly cold. Loki’s teeth chattered loudly in his sleep, and he curled himself into a tight ball, trying to conserve as much body heat as he could. He tossed and turned, trying to find some measure of peace, but it was fruitless.

Sometime during the day, when Loki was half-asleep and shivering blindly, the part of him that stubbornly clung to consciousness recognised something coming up behind him before settling down and curling around his body. The warmth was instantaneous, and Loki gave a quiet moan of relief. Another fur? He sighed and closed his eyes tighter, shuffling back into the heat as a low noise of sleep-riddled content escaped him.

The warmth closed around him, and Loki dreamt of his mother, of falling asleep in her arms as she sung lowly to him in her spring gardens, stroking his hair with a gentle hand. He felt safe for the first time since he had left Asgard, and the dream felt so real his heart ached with homesickness. He let out a quiet little sob.

“I’m scared,” he wanted to whisper in the Æsir tongue. “I’m so scared.” But it was mangled on his lips, stuck together with his dried saliva from sleep.

But it didn’t matter; his mother had seem to understand the words either way. “Shh,” she whispered. “Hush, love.” She kissed his hair lightly, just on his temple.

She did not turn on him as she had in his other dream, only held him tight, grounding him thoroughly.

* * *

#

* * *

When the sun set, a drumbeat boomed through the air, echoing along the stone halls of the Temple.

Jötunheimr had reached its aphelion. The Nóttvísa had begun.

* * *

#

* * *

The deep, echoing _thud_ of the drum awoke him at eventide. Loki’s eyes slid open, and he lay still, breathing deeply through his nose. There was the barest of murmurs in his mind, much like a soft breath on the back of his neck. It was … strangely warm and welcoming. Above his heart was a tiny pressure, as if someone had rested the tip of a finger there.

He rose silently as Fárbauti stirred behind him. Laufey and Býleistr were already awake, standing without a word and waiting for the others. Loki stood and went to stand beside them, his mind sluggish and single-tracked as the murmur coiled and whispered.

The drum beat again, reverberating in his very bones. He shivered, as did Laufey and Býleistr.

Part of him knew what was happening, and that part fought bitterly hard against the Nóttvísa’s pull, but the effort translated into nearly nothing. Loki’s hand once twitched violently, but he otherwise didn’t move. He felt disconnected from himself. Felt like he was awake, but not conscious.

Helblindi padded up to them, his face unusually solemn as a troop of servants entered the caves, their footsteps light and carrying with them several items. Loki was in a daze, and he was as limp as a child’s plaything as the servants prepared him.

He held his arms out to the sides, barely paying attention as a _kjilt_ of supple cloth was tied around his waist. The fabric was light and airy, but sturdy all the same. Bands of precious metals were placed on his upper arms, his oiled hair freshly wound with glittering stones, and his ceremonial armour placed onto his body. Black-dyed paint was brought to him next, and a stripe of it was drawn over his eyes.

Then Skrýmir-Goði came. He wore thick, but surprisingly weightless-looking white robes, the strips of cloth interwoven with such skill and dexterity it rivalled even the finest of Loki’s old Æsir garments. A heavy pectoral collar made of gold and silver and precious stones extended over his shoulders, weighing them down, and swirling patterns in black were painted upon his exposed skin. His heritage lines seemed to glow with a subtle bioluminescence. He dipped his fingers into the bowl held by one of the junior _goðar_ and began to draw runes on each of the royal family. Afterwards, he would mark their tongues with a line of watered-down blood.Loki was fourth in line.

Skrýmir’s eyes, surrounded as they were by the black paint, glittered like rubies. Loki wondered briefly if the paint over his own eyes had the same effect.

“You are of Jötunheimr,” Skrýmir said, drawing _F_ _é_ on Loki’s forehead with his thumb, “and Jötunheimr is of you. Her heart beats in time with yours, and will forever. She has watched over you, guided you, and will take your reputation as Her personification into Eternity.”

“Eternity,” Loki echoed.

In the hollow of his throat, the rune _Úr_ was drawn.

“You are of Jötunheimr, and Jötunheimr is of you. In your blood you bear the freedom of our people, of the will and want and ability to make your own decisions and choices through the universe’s Infinity.”

“Infinity.”

 _Kaun_ was placed on his left shoulder.

“You are of Jötunheimr, and Jötunheimr is of you. In your bones you carry the ice of Jötunheimr, the ice that our people were shaped from, and the ice that will continue to be remade beyond even Death.”

“Death.”

 _Ðagaz_ was traced on his right shoulder.

“You are of Jötunheimr, and Jötunheimr is of you. When the night is dark, will you find peace. When the sun is high, you will find rest. The final place of rest you will come to at the end of your nights, and, knowing of the sacrifice you have made to Jötunheimr in your duty, will you be returned to Oblivion.”

“Oblivion.”

Finally, _Odal_ was drawn on his sternum.

“Ganga,” Skrýmir murmured as he drew a line of blood down Loki’s tongue. “Heyra songrinn.”

“Já,” Loki replied tonelessly, “eða ek vili syngja.”

Skrýmir moved on to Helblindi, and Loki closed his eyes, exhaling deeply and immersing himself in the thud of the drum. The blood was far sweeter than he had been expecting, and he rolled the taste of it around his tongue, swallowing.

“Come.”

Loki focused on the _go_ _ði_ , now finished with Helblindi. He turned and walked through the door, and Loki hardly had to force his stiff legs to move. Skrýmir led them further up the stairs. Up and up and up they climbed in a tight spiral, and the murmur became louder and more refined with each step; Loki sunk into it ever deeper. But just when the conscious part of him thought he was going to be too dizzy to continue to walk, the floor levelled out.

The space they came to was open, and an empty pedestal stood within the centre, carved with flowing lines and runes that glowed a subtle blue. As soon as Loki clapped eyes on it, an image flashed into his mind. This room, swimming with blood, rock falling around him, a flash of light and heat, a baby’s wail piercing his ears. As the images came to him, his head throbbed. He let out a pained sound, hand flying to his head, and panting inexplicably hard.

“Loki,” Fárbauti said softly.

Loki shook his head minutely to clear it, grinding his teeth. The presence in his mind seemed to falter slightly, just for the blink of an eye, before it smoothed again.

He looked over the edges of the drop from the corner of his eye, and all he could see was blue. Blue torchlight, blue ice, blue skin. The streets of Útgarðar were packed with jötnar of every shape and size and gender, and Loki could see the _goðar_ moving amongst them with bowls of blood, drawing a stripe of it down tongue after tongue. A noise rose from the jötnar — something like a single, unbroken voice repeating itself. The bass feel of it was incredible from above.

 _Do you see,_ _Þjóðann Efst?_ he swore he heard someone whisper in his ear. _Do you see?_

“I see,” he croaked. He felt it, too. _Everything._

What felt like hours later — and it could have been for all Loki knew, for there was what seemed an endless sea of jötnar beneath him, and his legs felt sore from standing — Skrýmir held his staff to the night sky and the moons — a call for attention. Whatever noise had been amongst the crowd fell away at once to a dull, but distinct, murmur.

“Brothers,” Skrýmir said, “sisters, all of us — tied together tonight. Strongest of us, weakest of us — we share the blood in our veins tonight. Lowest of us, highest of us — we share the breath of our voices tonight. We are one tonight; we are all. We share the song.”

And then the chant slowly dissolved in a string of music, of fifty thousand rough voices catching in an age-old and bone-deep melody like a wave rising from the ocean. The presence in Loki’s mind seemed to respond to it, the sound of it coaxing it to grow and stretch along his nerves. It felt beautiful, felt like a lover’s caress, of bird’s feathers sweeping around him and holding him close, like a breath of summer rain pattering on his skin. He swayed where he stood, eyes sliding closed as his head tilted back and mouth opened.

It was a Night Song indeed, but composed of a music he had never heard the likes of before. It thrummed through his blood, throbbed like a heartbeat in his mind, and Loki wondered just how they had never heard this noise, this beautiful, enrapturing noise from Asgard, from anywhere else on Yggdrasil’s branches. Norns, Oblivion, it was a siren song that drowned him.

_Listen,_ _Þjóðann Efst, and sing._

Then, from far, far away, Loki understood. He understood why the Nóttvísa was so important, why it was placed into such a high regard, why it was so vital to _everything_ —

Jötunheimr was _alive_. The realm itself breathed, and Her heart beat in time with the throb of the Temple’s carved lines and runes. His tongue formed words he did not know, his voice rising and falling in time with every single one of the jötnar as the frenzy took them.

Loki remembered once so many years ago when Thor had come into his chambers late at night. Loki had been sitting in front of the open window, muttering these same words as snow blew into the room. Thor had tried to shut him up, to get him back into bed and close the window, and Loki had snapped at him, screamed at him to leave. It had been this, he realised from somewhere deep in his mind. He had been answering Jötunheimr’s faint and distant cry every year on this night even from realms away. He was a slave to it, one who gladly bowed his head towards his master, who loved his master.

Skrýmir called out, “Feel Her Heart, Her Breath, feel _Her_ ; feel Jötunheimr!”

Loki roared, screaming and bellowing his heart out to the skies. The jötnar answered Skrýmir’s call, and Loki heard the beasts of the tundras and birds roaming the skies crying as well. Everything was connected — one. It was bliss. He welcomed the call, welcomed the magic and life that thrummed through his blood. If he were to die now, he would die happy and full of content. He smiled, jubilation singing in his ears as his voice mixed with that of his kin.

And then, just as the song broke off, everything snapped. Loki’s voice died, his mouth still hanging open. The ecstasy retreated like air sucked from a room, only to be replaced by utter horror. His mouth snapped shut, and he stood ridged with shock for a few seconds before he turned, stumbling from the open-sided room as the high ended.

His ears were ringing as he took the stairs three at a time, nearly falling into a wall at the bottom. His vision was swimming, his balance gone to shit. He could feel himself heaving for breath as he pushed himself away from the wall, too deaf to the world to hear anything, much less himself.

Outside, the press of bodies was suffocating. They turned to him, seeing with far-away eyes as Loki pushed through them, carving himself a path towards the castle and the safety from the jötnar it could provide. “Prince!” he heard some of them say in muffled voices, but he ignored them, ignored everything. He was going to scream, he felt, tearing at his throat like a man half-crazed for water.

He was knocked flat by the crush of bodies, one of his horns catching someone’s chest and ripping through the skin like a knife through butter. Blood dripped on him, and Loki scrambled upright, swinging his head madly on instinct to clear the way. He reached forth with his claws, tearing at the crowd as he sprinted for safety. They parted for him easily enough now, every eye stupid with mania drawn to him. They reached for him, brushing their fingers along his skin. Loki didn’t try to stop the ice when it came, letting it shroud his shoulders like armour.

He fell through the barbican’s portcullis, scrambling to his feet and bursting through the doors to the castle. The entrance hall was deserted, and he staggered to the stairs, almost falling onto the bannister as he hacked out a dry cough. Tears stung his eyes, but he didn’t dare wipe them away; he’d only see his hands then — clawed, marked, jötunn. He’d brush the horns, feel the lines branded on his skin. Feel the icy flakes and the chill. When he realised how loud his breathing echoed, he clamped his jaw shut, fighting the sound down.

Loki felt like he was drowning in the ocean, but his dying brought him nothing but pain. Whoever said drowning was peaceful had been a greater liar than him.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki didn’t want to bring the ensuing fight to his chambers, so he waited for the inevitable outburst in the solar, chewing the sweet leaves languidly with his feet up on the ottoman. Calm, composed, every bit of fear and panic locked deep away within him.

It was just his luck that, fifteen minutes after his arrival, Laufey was the first to walk in. The doors crashed into the wall as the king stormed inside, followed by Býleistr and Fárbauti with Helblindi bringing up the rear.

Loki’s senses were still tingling from the Nóttvísa, and as such, he caught a whiff of Laufey’s anger when he had barged in — it was a sharp sting in his nose.

“How dare you walk off,” Laufey started, furious.

“Sváss,” Fárbauti protested, but Laufey held up a hand. She fell silent at once.

But Loki wasn’t interested in her; his eyes were fixed on Laufey. He forced himself to look detached as chewed the leaf in his mouth, making Laufey wait for an answer. He spat its skeleton on the floor after a long pause. “And my disobedience is news to you _how_?” he asked, forcing the corner of his mouth up into a self-satisfied smirk.

“If there was one night in which you had to toe the line, it was this one,” Laufey started. He was swollen with anger, and there was a vain part of Loki that delighted in it.“You agreed.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit,” Loki said, languid. “I didn’t agree to anything — I acknowledged that I understood your warning. And as if you wanted me there. I’m the family disgrace, remember? I’m sure the public hates me, and I know full well of the absolutely stellar reputation I’ve gotten myself in the castle. And this is all _nothing_ in the light of what I actually am: Æsir bred. Don’t think I haven’t figured your game out, Laufey-King.”

“Game?”

“Aye. The game of politics and personal pride. You should be familiar with it if you dare call yourself a half-decent king.” His voice deepened in anger. “You didn’t take me back from Asgard for any sort of emotional attachment. You took me back because you couldn’t stand the thought of the shame it would bring you to have your son amongst the Æsir and calling your greatest enemy ‘Father’. This has been for nothing but your pride, hasn’t it? Hasn’t — _i_ _t?_ I haven’t figured out yet why you’ve persisted with this masquerade of acceptance, why you haven’t killed me or locked up like the stain to your name that I am. I heard you this morning, talking about how leaving me my own space will heal the huge _fucking_ chasm between us.”

Laufey’s anger seemed to drain from him, and he said in a much quieter voice, “No, Loki. That is not it at all.”

But then the hypocrisy was just too much for Loki to bear for a second longer. The rage came back forth, and it brought with it everything, every thought, every emotion he’d been carefully supressing since that first day on this realm. Loki lunged at Laufey, fists raised to strike, and howled, “I don’t believe you! _I don_ _’t believe you!_ ” He screeched as Býleistr caught him around the middle, pinning his arms to his sides. Loki thrashed in an effort to get away, but Býleistr held on grimly, even as Loki’s ice bit deep into his chest.

“Loki, Loki!” Helblindi called.

Loki screamed at Laufey, “Just admit it! You abandoned me! _You abandoned me!_ ” Býleistr’s arms slackened, and Loki tried to twist himself free, snapping and snarling like a cornered wolf with the only thought of _getting away._

“Is that what you really think?” Laufey asked quietly, unblinking. It was another stab in the gut for Loki. Those had been Thor’s exact words when he had come to Jötunheimr to get him.

“I doubt you would have let me be taken from your arms by your most hated enemy if I am as valuable as you say,” Loki spat, ragged gasps breaking from his throat. The grief for everything he had lost, the grief he had locked away in those first few nights after Thor’s raid, was spilling out. He couldn’t help but ride the tidal wave of emotion breaking over him. It was a horrible feeling. “I wasn’t a war hostage either, because you thought I was dead — you said it yourself! It was war, and I doubt that if you really felt the way you say, you wouldn’t have left me lying around like so much rubbish! It’s the only explanation!”

“Never, Loki. We mourned—” Fárbauti started, but Loki cut her off.

“You didn’t! If you had mourned, you wouldn’t have starved me, you wouldn’t have stripped my freedom from me, you wouldn’t have ignored my grief for everything that you’ve taken from me, monster! You took my name, my purpose, my whole life! Because have you not worked it out yet? _I didn’t know I was jötunn!_ I didn’t know _anything_ , and you just stand there and expect me to do what I cannot — to be calm and comply when I’ve been dying beneath your hands on my neck! I want to burn you, break you … tear you under my fingers to the bone. I would eat my own heart, Laufey-King, to kill you in _hólmganga_ , to see you _die_ —”

“Stop it!” Helblindi screamed, his eyes screwed shut and his hands clasped over his ears. “Stop it, Loki. Stop it, stop it, _stop it_!”

Loki rounded on him, eyes burning with murder. “You shut up,” he sneered. “What would you know? You’re nothing but a child who panders, who pretends that he would have a brother of me. You’re a fool to think it possible of me.” The tears were back, and Loki hated the feeling of them dripping down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them away. Let them see.

Helblindi looked as if he had been struck. Laufey too looked astounded, and Fárbauti’s expression was broken.

Fixing his eyes on Laufey, Loki spat quietly, “I am not jötunn. You are not my father. You are not my family.” It wasn’t a denial of his blood — it was the simple statement of truth that there was no connection, no bond, between him and any of them. He hoped to high Hel they understood that.

Loki finally managed to tug himself free from Býleistr’s grip and, snapping his teeth at Fárbauti as she reached for him, tore through the castle, too angry to regret his words.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki’s skin was wrinkled from his long soak in the pools, but it had gone past the point where he was washing himself in an effort to seek distraction. Sitting still fully clothed in the hot water was done now an effort to stop shivering. His nerves were raw, and he felt like he would break at the tiniest provocation. For the first time in his memory, his eyes had run dry and his throat ached from screaming. He had always been an emotional creature, a weakness he hated with all his heart, but it had felt so good to just bellow himself hoarse at the bottom level of the garður af íss, to sob and curse to his heart’s content, calling even for Heimdallr and Odin to just _look at him_. Let them hear his pain; let them see what they’d done. Who cared that they saw now after he’d spilt everything to Laufey?

He would have stayed there forever, but he had to go back. So he had snuck back into the castle and down to the baths. He’d slammed the horns into the wall behind him, trying to break them and everything they had meant to gift and honour him with off; all he’d gotten was a fantastically pounding headache. His nails were broken and ragged, for he had bit the claws off in an effort to fix something about himself — a tricky task with his pointed teeth, but it at least was satisfying when he’d cut his tongue up in the process.

Loki scratched at his shoulder, trying to dislodge the paint that wasn’t there when heard the curtain rustle behind him. “Get out,” he snarled, not bothering to turn around. He pulled a glamour over his face at the same time, knowing the demand to be alone was going to be ignored.

Helblindi sat down on the edge of the pool, dipping his feet in and pressing his hands between his knees.

“Helblindi, go,” Loki hissed, hoisting himself from the water. The armour rattled wetly.

“I have to wash the paint off,” Helblindi whispered. Loki knew better; he could have done it in his chambers.

“If you don’t go now, I swear I will throw you out by your neck.”

Helblindi didn’t move. His hands were shaking as he scooped up some water. Loki snuck a glance at him; Helblindi’s eyes were fever bright, emphasised all the more by the paint. Next to him was a tray of steaming food. Helblindi saw him looking, and pushed it a little towards Loki. Meat and bone was on the plate, and a cup full of a dark viscous liquid was sat next to it.

“Fresh kill,” Helblindi said. “It’s still warm.”

Loki pushed the tray away, even though he was starving. He didn’t want any sort of charity from his blood kin.

The curtain moved again as Fárbauti entered the cave. Loki spun around in a low crouch, and a knife, one of the uru ones from Asgard, jumped into his hand. He held it in front of him, ready to either throw or strike her with it. His grip was tight to hide the tremor.“Get the _fuck_ away from me,” he spat.

Fárbauti knelt on the floor, holding her hands at shoulder height as she looked at him unblinkingly. “I only wish to talk,” she said.

“I said _get out_.”

She sat back on her heels and, not taking her eyes from him, said, “Helblindi.”

Helblindi cast a wide-eyed glance between Fárbauti and Loki before he slunk to the exit, leaving the two of them alone.

It was as if Helblindi’s leaving had triggered something within him. Loki’s arm fell, and he slumped, suddenly exhausted. Fárbauti crept towards him, balanced on the balls of her toes. Loki didn’t look at her, even when she stopped just out of arm’s reach from him.

“You didn’t know?” she asked, and there was something strangled in her voice. Loki dearly hoped it was self-loathing.

He snorted, and his eyes blazed. “I was flapping my jaw for the Hel of it — what the fuck do you think.”

“Why didn’t you _say anything_?”

The answer that he told himself was that he was too proud a creature to admit it, but deep in his heart, the ultimate truth was that he knew no one cared. He was just a political chess piece, after all, and no one thought for the feelings of carved and painted wood. He had learnt at an early age not to say anything, for the hope that someone would listen had been extinguished again and again. He didn’t bother to even consider it an option anymore, especially now after Odin’s betrayal.

What he said was, “If you were my mother, you would know why.”

“May I sit?”

When Loki didn’t offer a reply, Fárbauti sat by him, still at enough of a distance so to not make him feel threatened.

Loki couldn’t stand the silence that fell between them; he felt like they were just going in circles, as he said, “How disappointed you must be with me.”

 _Answer me_ , he demanded. _Answer — me._

“I am grief-ridden for you,” she replied, barely keeping the shake from her voice. “I hate myself for not trying harder to help, not _seeing_ —”

“I don’t want your pity, nor your help,” Loki snarled. “I want you to disappear from my life. Everything to.” He wanted to destroy. He wanted to start with burning Jötunheimr, and then Asgard, and then the Cosmos, and then, if he had enough energy left to give a damn, perhaps destroy himself. He wanted to crawl away and die where no one could see him, mock him, knew his heart for its weakness. Norns, it was all he wanted in that moment.

Fárbauti reached for him, to touch him and offer comfort, but her hand fell back to her side. Loki thought, _How dare you, you cowardly_ whore _. Don_ _’t you dare retract your kindness. You see me finally, the shattered thing I am. You offer your love to Helblindi, but you can’t give it to me._

Loki felt like he was choking on the same despair he had been swamped with when he had knelt before Laufey after Thor’s raid — betrayed by his family. Again. Why did he hold expectations of familial comfort from monsters?

Fárbauti instead reached for the cup Helblindi had brought him. Loki looked at it dubiously as she held it towards him. It was a piss-poor peace offering. But it smelt good, and, despite himself, his mouth began to water.

“It is a drink for the nerves,” Fárbauti said, passing him the cup.

“What is it?” he asked, not lifting it to his lips.

“A honey based drink.”

“Honey? In _J_ _ötunheimr_?”

“It is not exactly honey,” Fárbauti said, “but it is what best translates. It is made from krothamar plant extract that bacteria inhabit. The honey is what they deposit in the cores of the trees.”

Loki sniffed at it, and now he could smell the sweetness in the drink. “What else is in it?” he asked, clipped.

“Marmennill blood,” Fárbauti said. Loki, who had taken the tiniest of sips, choked it down. “It is a delicacy,” she continued. “Marmennill live in far-flung lakes high in the mountains, and are hard to catch and kill.” Loki could tell why indeed it was a delicacy — it was delicious. He couldn’t help but steal another few mouthfuls.

But the blood itself was not what had caught Loki’s attention before. He was so used to the bloody state of the meat he had been living on for the past six months it didn’t faze him. Besides, he had consumed blood enough when still in Asgard when hunting with Thor and his friends. Memories of the nights spent after feasting on the meat and drinking warm deer blood around a fire after a long day flashed through his mind’s eye. No, it was the creature that it belonged to that nagged at him. Marmennill … he’d heard the word before….

And then, with a rush, the memory came back. Þengraðr. Angrboða talking to him about bonds. The off-handed comment she had given him. _When_ she had told him about the blood before.

_“Some seek death to alleviate the pain; others get fucked off their faces drinking undiluted marmennill blood …”_

The cup fell to the ground with a clatter, the contents spilling everywhere. Loki stumbled back as his hands went to his head. His vision was splintering, fractioning into a thousand pieces as the marmennill blood worked its magic. He felt like a fool letting the sweet taste of the concoction rule his head. “What have you _done to me_?” he snarled, looking at Fárbauti with burning eyes.

Fárbauti caught him before he fell. She lowered him gently to the floor, whispering, “I’m so sorry, my love. But please relax, Loki. We must … you must see. I am sorry, but you must see.”

And as he slid into unconsciousness, Loki’s last coherent thought was of how much he hated her.


	25. Chapter Twenty-One - Ek Hriða ok Sínum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

Broken images.

Hands.

His heart was pounding, beating fit to burst against his ribs.

A torn cry wrenched itself from his throat as he was laid down on soft furs.

Blood and honey coated his tongue.

“Breathe, Loki. Breathe.”

He breathed in.

And out.

In.

And out.

The blood was still on his tongue.

He tried to spit it out.

He twisted around, screwing his eyes shut as light exploded behind them.

He gasped for breath, stomach clenching.

“Skrýmir-Goði, how long will this take?”

“I don’t know; he’s resisting. It could take some hours yet before anything happens. Dróttning, please — leave him be for now.”

He shivered as someone ran the backs of their claws down his face. He flinched away from the touch.

“Dream, my love, and see.”

* * *

#

* * *

Hours went by.

He fought.

It was useless, like trying to break free of mystical Gleipnir.

He didn’t remember why he was fighting.

Why not answer the call of delirium?

He didn’t dream.

Why didn’t he want to dream?

He couldn’t remember.

The magic took him and held him tight.

His body slackened.

He could still taste the blood.

* * *

#

* * *

_Look._

_Son of Jötunheimr._

_And forgive, Loki Laufeyson._

_Forgive._

* * *

#

* * *

_I am Loki._

_Loki._

_I am Loki._

* * *

#

* * *

The sky …

Dark, spotted with stars …

Stars that were barely visible …

Hanging above nothing more than a lone belt of rock drifting through the space …

Ash drifted passed his eyes, and the smell of it clogged his mind … Fear thrummed through his veins …

_Breathe …_

_Breathe._

All he had was that brief glance. Pain shot through him as sudden as a bolt of lightning, and he threw his head back, screaming as fire enveloped his flesh. It burnt him, got under his skin and ate him from the inside out. Chains were wrapped around his forearms, his ankles, his neck. Choking him. Strangling his magic. But the pain never vanished. The pain was an ever-present ache in his bones.

And then, suddenly, it was gone. With the limited relief he was offered from the sharp and sudden pain, Loki assessed his surroundings.

_Breathe._

_Keep breathing._

It looked like an asteroid, free floating through a lonely, far-flung part of the universe that was unmapped by Asgard. But there was a stirring of life amongst the blue-grey rock. There were … slithering things that hid amongst them.

Leviathans that glittered with armour.

The gentle, ringing hiss of something above his head — the song of a deadly sharp blade.

Loki shivered as the cold air pressed upon his naked Æsir skin. Each breath was stolen into his lungs, a precious gift. It was the only proof he had that he wasn’t yet dead. Despite the madness that had gripped him upon Bifröst, he hadn’t wanted to die, not really. Now he wished his suicide attempt had succeeded, but yet he was still apparently foolish enough to hold onto some scrap of hope. Still hoped that someone would catch him.

He jumped back as a blurred figure moved in front of him. Terror flooded him, and he struggled to get away, but he was immobilised by the chains.

_Get away get away get away you ABOMINATION—_

“Hold,” said a rough and cruel voice.

Someone else stepped forward, brushing past the first figure with obvious authority. Loki’s vision was blurred with pain and tears, and when the figure leant towards him, he choked. The skin was slate grey, the mouth torn, and the opaque teeth were like shards of clouded glass. Black blood dripped from the creature’s lips, and fell oily and hot on his bare skin. The robes it wore pooled around its feet like water, and its eyes were hidden by a hood.

_Don’t touch me—_

“I have heard some interesting things about you,” the thing said, reaching for his face with a hand that had too many fingers. Loki flinched back, straining away from the touch. The pads of its fingers were like snake scales: smooth and cool. “There is something damaged in your mind. A broken barrier.”

Loki bore his teeth in some attempt at defiance. “Go to Hel.”

The fingers tightened on his face, and he howled as something dug into his mind. The force was ruthless, and it tore through his head, streaked towards the cracked area that had always been sealed off to him, that had always pained him whenever he prodded at it. The intruder ripped it apart.

_Don’t …_

_Please…._

Loki cried out, buckling and writhing and trying desperately to ignore the tears tracking down his face. The chains grew tight around his arms, the links groaning as he grew and horns burst from his brow. He slumped, his breathing erratic and uncontrolled when the shift was over. But he couldn’t help but notice how big he was now. Had Odin lied? Gotten that wrong? Was he not some disgraceful runt as he had told him?

“Frost creature,” the voice said, more interested than disgusted. Loki tried to make himself as small as possible. How could this thing, as monstrous though it already was, not be disgusted?

He had gripped the Casket tightly in the Weapons Vault, had watched with horror as the blue seeped into his skin as the artefact resonated within his very soul, filling the gnawing hole in his gut that had become present ever since his return from Thor’s idiotic caper to Jötunheimr resulting in his banishment. An impression was all it had been, apparently; a glimpse to what he really was.

Black blood dripped from between the creature’s ripped lips. “Frost creature,” the thing, the alien that was so utterly _Other_ , repeated like it was an accusation. “A frost creature with horns. I’ve seen your kind wandering the stars, lost and bitter as are you, and never have I seen another bearing horns. An anomaly, perhaps? You must understand that we are not unkind beings, frost creature; we are capable of mercy.”

And as soon as the words slipped from the thing, the creatures circling grabbed one of the horns and, as one, jerked downwards.

_NO—_

The bone was broken off with an empty, echoing snap.

Loki’s scream was of pure, unbridled _agony_. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and thin vomit splattered the rocks as he wretched and cried out. This was like nothing he had experienced before, and he was convinced he was going to die for the all-encompassing pain. He thrashed, trying to get away from the pain in his head, trying to press down on it to offer some sliver of relief. His heart was pounding, pounding, pounding so hard he thought it might burst.

Loki kicked out at the alien, but he was so weak, unable to fight back. The clatter of bone on rock echoed in his ears as the first horn was dropped at his feet. Strong hands gripped the remaining one. His head felt lopsided.

“Settle, settle,” the alien murmured, and the hand gripping his face tightened its hold as he gasped pathetically. “We’re only trying to help you fit the picture of the others of your species.” The alien’s breath on his neck made him shudder — it was rank, foul, and he never wanted it to caress him again and he would readily rip his skin off if it meant respite from it. “Just think of what would have happened if Odin had taken you back to Asgard, Prince. This would be reality — the alternate timeline to the one you tread now. And you would have committed regicide, patricide, matricide, fratricide, and genocide all to try in vain to clean your blackened soul. You would be estranged from your Æsir family, the murderer of your jötunn blood, attempted murderer of your adopted Æsir kin, and you would never be able to find peace even beyond your dying breath. You do not know what mercy you have been granted by those you despise.”

And as the second horn was broken, the scene lurched.

* * *

#

* * *

_Loki._

_Loki._

_I am Loki._

_But … but …_

* * *

#

* * *

Loki fell on all fours, shivering and moaning with the ghost impression of the pain. He was still in his jötunn form, and his hands flew to his horns. Giddy relief flooded through him to find them whole and unbroken. But the sudden tranquillity was shattered in a heartbeat.

The air was rocked with an explosion, ice and rock shrapnel falling from the ceiling that now stretched above his head. The distinctive tramping march of the Einherjar — a march he would recognise anywhere — was a background beat. The sound of blades hitting blades rung through the air, the battle cries of the Æsir and the deafening roars of the jötnar pounding against his eardrums. He used the wall to pull himself to his feet, and he looked around sharply.

The throne room of Útgarðar was dim. It was lit by the illuminating crystals set into the walls, and they bathed the area an eerie blue. The place was wrought with activity, full of snapped orders and desperate battle strategies being shouted and bellowed from one jötunn to another. And presiding over it all was Laufey.

_He’s not my father._

Battle armour was grafted to his flesh, and he gripped the Casket in one hand, the other planted on a spread map on a table. A snarl was plastered across his face, and his eyes flashed a bloody red in the low light. His huge horns, lined with iron spikes, only imposed his great height all the more. He looked healthier, fitter, but held the weariness of a long fought war about him. This was Laufey in his prime.

The doors banged open, and a distressed jötunn called, “The Asgardians have breached Útgarðar-Greater’s defences!” Loki recognised Thjazi at once. A younger Thjazi bloodied from war and fitted with the same style of armour as Laufey.

Laufey cursed, turning to the jötnar who were now awaiting new orders from their king. “Evacuate the city; anyone who can fight will stay, but elders and children will be escorted out under guard to go to the Skógarmaðrfit. This is our priority!”

“Laufey!”

Laufey whipped around. Loki’s heart jumped at the sight of Fárbauti. She too was wearing armour, her face covered in war paint, and her head shaven, protected by a helm at the back. At her side was a small jötunn boy, as tall as her hip; he gripped her hand tightly, quivering, shaking with fright, and his breathing was shallow with fear.

Býleistr.

Trailing behind them was a slim and wary she-jötunn he didn’t recognise.

Cradled in Fárbauti’s free arm was a bundle of furs and rough blankets, and a shrill cry from within added to the din.

_It can’t be—_

His vision seemed to be splitting. One moment he was looking upon the scene from where he stood, and a second later, he would see blurred images of the ceiling, shadows of towering jötnar, feel a fear which stabbed through his tiny heart and he would be crying and crying for his dam — his entire world — because he knew of nothing else to do.

Loki shook his head, throwing the foreign thoughts away.

“My love,” Laufey said, striding to Fárbauti and taking her into his arms. “Run; I will not allow you to be here.”

“I must, and I will,” Fárbauti hissed.

“No,” Laufey growled. “You’re still healing from the birth, and I cannot risk losing you — we cannot.” He looked to Býleistr. One of his fingers stretched towards the tiny bundle, and he traced something within. “What will our sons do without their dam?” Loki felt a shiver run along his cheek, a beautiful warmth. He clawed at his cheek, trying to banish the sensation of Laufey’s touch.

_Not my … father…._

“My people are dying beneath Asgardian blades,” Fárbauti said viciously, “and I will stand and fight.”

“No.”

Fárbauti glared at him, her teeth bared in a snarl. She leant close to his face. “I _will_ stay and fight, mate, and you cannot stop me.”

Laufey said lowly, “As your king, I forbid you to fight.”

“And as your queen-consort and equal, I revoke your order,” Fárbauti retorted. “Now tell me what I can do. Give me a battalion to head.”

“What about Býleistr?” Laufey demanded, angry. “Our newborn?”

“I will send them along, and we will join them afterwards,” Fárbauti said. She crouched down to Býleistr’s level and gave him the bundle gently. As she was rearranging Býleistr’s hold on the baby, she said, “Take care of your brother.”

_Not my family…._

“But Dam, why can’t you come with us and look after him?” Býleistr asked in a quaking voice. “What if I lose him because he’s so small?”

“You won’t,” Fárbauti reassured, cupping his face. “Your sire and I must go now to fight, and we will return to you when the fighting is over, I promise you. Be brave, my love. Prove your blood.”

Býleistr hesitated before he nodded, clutching his wailing baby brother close.

“Sváss,” Laufey protested.

Fárbauti glared at him. “I am fighting, and you are not stopping me.” She left a lingering kiss on the crown of Býleistr’s head and the baby’s before turning to the accompanying she-jötunn. “Menja, make sure they are safe. Now go!”

Menja hoisted Býleistr into her arms before she turned and ran.

Loki followed the two on light feet, easily keeping up as Menja fled through the castle, a castle that gleamed and glistened and was far grander and majestic than he had ever seen it, with soaring buttresses and its gothic architecture intact and mighty and beautiful.

_They are nothing to me. This place can rot—_

They stumbled into the courtyard, breath smoking on the air. Loki’s gaze was torn to the sky, filled with the crackling, raging energy and rainbow lights of Bifröst; he never thought that the Bridge could ever be so terrifying or alien. Screams and roars filled the air as the Æsir and jötnar clashed and fought.

“Menja! Prince!”

Býleistr whipped around in Menja’s arms as a party of jötnar pelted towards them.

“Come with us; we must leave!”

Býleistr merely settled to cradle his brother in his arms. “It’ll be alright,” he muttered. The baby’s cries only grew louder, and Loki felt some long ago fear tearing into his heart. This one was holding the bundle too tight, the crash of noise was deafening, and he didn’t want this one to hold him! He wanted his dam, his dam that offered safety and warmth and love—

_Never alright. Ruined._

Loki shook his head again to throw off the invading flickers of feeling. He ran with them, flitting through the castle down sets of stairs until they burst through a back door on the other side of the castle to the main gates. The garður af íss was smoking, the icy spikes transforming its landscape broken and shattered around their feet. The party ran to it, but there was no shelter there; what were they thinking? There was nothing there!

_Stop! Turn back; you’ll die!_

“Menja!” a jötunn roared from the stairs of the garður af íss. “Quickly, the doors are about to close.”

But before any of the jötnar could offer an answer, the scream of Bifröst ripped through the air, engulfing the jötunn who had called out and forcing the others to scatter. Einherjar poured forth, swords drawn and pointed at the jötnar.

“Take the princes away from here!” one yelled at Menja. “Protect them!”

But four of the Einherjar had already spotted her and the precious cargo she had in her arms. They charged.

Loki did the first thing his instinct screamed at him to do. He reached for the negative space and withdrew four of his knives, throwing them one after the other at the Einherjars’ heads. All of them went through without any kind of impact. The attack was so sudden Menja did the only thing she could to keep the princes from the hands of the Æsir: she threw Býleistr from her arms. Býleistr curled around the bundle, shielding it with his body as he crashed into the ground. The baby screamed even more, and Býleistr cried out in pain.

“Menja!”

The slaughter was over in half a minute. Æsir and jötnar both lay drenched in blood, and there was, as far as Loki could see, a single survivor. An Einherji. He looked around, sword clutched in a trembling hand. His wide, bloodshot eyes affixed on Býleistr — frozen by hurt and fear against the debris of the now collapsed walls — and the baby he held. Loki thought that the soldier was very young, surely just a millennium old. He started forward, sword held tight and muttering under his breath, “Kill them now and quickly. Now and quickly. It wasn’t their fault they were born monsters. Not their fault. Show them mercy—”

He cried out; a stalagmite of ice had stabbed him in the back of his knee, right between the joint in his armour. He fell to the ground, and Loki was struggling to understand how it had happened when a she-jötunn reached over the pile of bodies in front of her and broke the Einherji’s neck with a single hand. Loki stared, stunned, but the she-jötunn then slumped over, a final rattling hiss of breath escaping her lungs.

Býleistr was still for a heartbeat, dutifully clutching the baby, before he stood and padded to where Menja lay. “Menja?” he whispered. He pushed at Menja’s shoulder lightly. She didn’t respond. “ _Menja!_ ”

From his position, Loki could see the blood at the back of her head, and the rock that had collided with it. Býleistr choked as he realised the she-jötunn was dead, and he backed into the garður af íss’ broken wall, shivering and shaking.

_You’re crying, Býleistr. Why do you cry?_

Býleistr choked back a sob, looking around wildly for somewhere to go. “Sire?” he whispered. “Dam?” He sniffled. “Sire! Dam! Where are you? We can’t stay here; the Rainbow Bridge will come back … Please, I’m scared.” But no one was coming. “I’m scared….” He dug the heel of his palm into his eyes before shaking his head and muttering in a broken voice, “My sire is the most powerful man alive. I’m not scared. I’m not.”

Loki was watching him intently, crouched down and straining to hear over the cacophony of the greater battle. He didn’t want to get closer.

“The Temple,” Býleistr suddenly whispered to himself. “The _goðar_ will protect us, Brother. They can protect anyone they’re so powerful.”

_But how? There’s a battle between you and the Temple._

Býleistr held a shaking hand above his head, and Loki stared in astonishment as what was clearly an invisibility spell covered them. It was shaky and weak, as Loki could see a definite ripple in the air where Býleistr was, but in the confusion of a battle, no one would notice. They wouldn’t notice the baby’s unrelenting cries, either.

Býleistr ran as Bifröst came down again at the back of the garður af íss, and the tremendous sound of breaking rock and screeching ice grated against Loki’s ears. He clapped his hands to them, shrieking in pain at the noise as the garður af íss’ gorge he and Sigyn had dangled their legs into was ripped into the land. Býleistr didn’t stop. He ran as fast as he could, and Loki followed him.

The gates to the castle lay in ruins, and a makeshift barrier of ice and stone was the only thing apart from the army between the castle and Asgard’s army. Gaps had been blasted into other sections of the wall, each with two or three jötnar protecting them. There must have been a system of some kind, for Býleistr veered deliberately to the right and headed to one of the gaps closest to the city. A half-dozen jötnar stood there, all wearing light armour. Five of them had the single lines of the common people on their skin, and the other had the triple of the high elite.

“New orders from the throne room for the _goðar_ ,” the highborn said loudly. “Prepare the Temple for the arrival of the king and the Fornvetr. Deliver this to Gullveig-Gyðja at once.”

“Yes, my lord. At once.”

The highborn handed a folded piece of parchment to a jötunn — Loki assumed him to be the leader for the extra armband he wore in addition to his soldier’s uniform. He then gestured to the other four jötnar to stay with him before racing through the gap, Býleistr discreetly slipping after him. Loki, cursing his brother’s stupidity, followed.

The battlefield was utter chaos. Fire and brimstone rained on Útgarðar as the Einherjar marched over the main road. Their battle was made more difficult by the fact that they were being attacked on no less than four fronts, crushing the army within. The column was facing assault from both the front and back, separated from the jötnar by a shield wall. The shields themselves flared with enchantments to protect the soldiers from the frostbite of the giants and their spellcasters. But what caught Loki’s attention was the figure at the head of the column of the Æsir: Odin. Loki froze.

Both of Odin’s eyes were whole, and traces of auburn were still caught in his grey hair. He looked much more youthful than Loki had ever seen him and it shocked him. And still, there was some deep part of him that now reached for Odin. This was the first time he had seen him for six months, and he missed him. Had it really been just six months? But … there was some part of him that was deeply confused. He’d never met this pale man before, so why did he feel this same attachment to him as he felt to his dam?

But he didn’t have time for this. He hurried after Býleistr, following the jötnar bearing the message for the _goðar._

The majority of the fighting was caught between the castle and the city itself, and another barricade had been set up between the Einherjar and the jötnar. Several homes had been destroyed, reduced to nothing more than rubble, and corpses — Æsir and jötunn both — littered the roads. The jötnar had obviously used the paths behind the barricade before, for they made their way through it with an obvious familiarity. Býleistr struggled behind them, his glamour flickering a few times before strengthening again.

 _You’ll drop him. You’ll drop the baby. You’ll drop_ me _—_

There was a hole blown into the side of the Temple, and the ice over it receded as the jötnar barrelled inside. The Temple was a mass of jötnar — they had to be _goðar_ , all diverse in gender and age. They wore slightly different armour than the rest of the jötnar Loki had seen — sleek black metal that was like smooth water over their shoulders and upon their arms, legs, and chests.

“What are our orders?” one of the _goðar_ asked. Loki looked up at him. It was Skrýmir. He looked younger, his armour and adornments speaking of a lesser rank than which he held as Loki knew him.

One of the messengers held out the parchment, panting heavily. Skrýmir snapped it from his hand and unfolded it, eyes scanning the page. They widened. “Make ready for the king. He will need all the support he can get.”

“My sire?”

Skrýmir and the others jumped as Býleistr removed the glamour, quivering in the middle of them with a hiccupping baby on his shoulder.

“Prince! What are you doing here?” Skrýmir asked, panic colouring his voice.

“Menja’s dead,” Býleistr whispered, pulling the baby close. “I didn’t know what to do. You’ll protect us, won’t you?”

Skrýmir shook off his shock. “Of course, Your Highness. Follow me; I’ll take you and your brother to a safe place.”

An explosion rocked the Temple walls as Skrýmir hoisted Býleistr into his arms and snapped hurried orders to the other _goðar_. “The Casket chamber! Protect the First of the Goðar at all costs!”

Hordes of jötnar thundered up the stairs, hurrying past checkpoints that were strategically arranged at the ends of walkways and in doorframes. They were not sealed behind them, and Loki suspected that it was because of the king’s imminent arrival. The staircase that Skrýmir carried Býleistr up was a tightly curling one, one that Loki recognised. And sure enough, they came to the open chamber where he had stood during the Nóttvísa, but it wasn’t empty.

The chamber was a throng of murmuring _goðar_. They sat in a tight circle, fingertip-to-fingertip as they swayed and spoke in some tongue Loki couldn’t understand. But what he was interested in was their _seiðr_ — it was just so powerful. Much more powerful than his own. With power like what the _goðar_ possessed, he could have brought a storm to an entire planet, he could have opened an Ævaleysa with a mere thought, he could have thrown a moon out of orbit. His magic, nothing small in itself, in comparison was like a candle to a bonfire.

In the middle of the circle was one of the smallest jötnar Loki had ever seen — a runt? She couldn’t have been more than seven feet in height, but Loki knew instinctually that her height was nothing to be deceived by. Waves of energy rolled from her like a slow, powerful tide from the shore. The hair prickled on the back of Loki’s neck, and again, he felt some tiny spark of what had possessed him at the Nóttvísa awaken in his mind. He wouldn’t have felt it if the memory of that night hadn’t been so fresh.

The jötnar streamed around the _goðar_ , ice forming on their arms as they took up positions ringing them.

“The king! The king comes!”

Skrýmir set Býleistr down next to a deep niche down a side corridor and said, “Stay out of sight, little prince. Glamour yourself, and stay quiet.”

“What about you?” Býleistr whispered.

“I have to fight, Your Highness, next to your sire.”

“Where’s Dam? Skrýmir—”

“I don’t know, my prince. Stay there, and don’t move.”

Býleistr nodded and turned to the niche, stuffing himself inside and casting a glamour over himself and the baby. “Stop, please stop crying,” Býleistr whispered. “Please, Brother. Skrýmir, help me.”

Skrýmir scratched a silencing rune into the wall just as Laufey stormed into the chamber, bloodied and panting for breath. The Casket was clutched tightly in one hand, and the carved lines of the Temple and its runes throbbed brightly.

“The _seiðr_ has almost built, my king,” Skrýmir said. “Your Majesty, your so—”

A she-jötunn roared as a flaming arrow struck her chest, and she screamed as her flesh began to blacken.

“Form up! Form up! Make way for the king!” someone shouted as another jötunn dragged the wounded she-jötunn away. Loki knew she was dead, and that her body was moved for room. For a fight.

The _goðar_ in the circle moved aside as Laufey strode to the middle, placing the Casket forcibly on the pedestal. A howl of freezing wind and snow tore through the chamber’s open walls, and there was a resounding cry from the Æsir beneath.

“The Spearbreaker comes!”

“Defend the entrances at all costs!” Laufey roared. He turned to the small _gyðja_ beside him and snarled, “How much longer, Gullveig-Gyðja?”

“We need more time,” the _gyðja_ said through gritted teeth. “Jötunheimr is not yet ready. My king, we will bury everyone if we release the winter now.”

“Hurry, then.”

“Yes, my king.”

Gullveig’s chant quickened, and the _goðar_ around her sped up too, swaying faster and faster to keep up. One of the younger ones suddenly fainted, and another rushed to take his place.

“Hold fast! Impact!”

A _thud_ shook the Temple walls. Snow rained from the ceiling as Loki looked over the edge of the chamber. Jötnar and Æsir alike lay dead around the Temple’s foot, and Odin was at the front, blasting the doors with Gungnir’s fire. Sleipnir reared up and kicked at them too, opening the doors just enough that Geri or Freki — Loki couldn’t tell which of the wolves it was at this distance — managed to slip inside. A howl echoed through the stone passageways. Skrýmir leant over the edge and shot a bolt of magic at the Allfather, but Odin hardly seemed to notice as it was deflected by wards. Behind the Einherjar, another jötunn battalion crashed into the back of the army, led, Loki saw, by Fárbauti.

“Hold the door! _Hold the door!_ ”

Clouds began to boil in the dark sky as Sleipnir’s hooves crashed through the main door. The horse was thrown back as ice was launched into his chest, halted by the thick armour he wore. But the damage was done. The Einherjar now took the chance to pour into the Temple, and the chant intensified all the more. Lightning crackled overhead as Sleipnir leapt through the broken doors.

“Wait for my signal!” Skrýmir screamed back down the stairs. He looked to Laufey, who gave him a nod. Skrýmir bolted down the stairs, and the jötnar behind him pointed icy spears at the entrance, waiting for something to come up. Screams, roars, bangs, and the clash of steel and ice rung through the air, and underlying it all was that constant chant from the _goðar_. Loki shuddered, pressing himself back against the wall. There was a thrum in his head, a ringing in his ears.

“Majesty!” he heard someone yell in the Æsir tongue. “The monsters congregate here! This must be the way!”

Loki recognised the voice — Týr. He had been captain of the Kingsguard during the war, but now he held the position of one of Asgard’s finest generals.

Another explosion rocked the Temple to its very foundations. A blowback of smoke and rubble came through the entranceways, and Loki realised with a jolt what must have happened — the walkways must have been collapsed. But there were cries of despair from the jötnar, and then the renewal of sounds of battle. Laufey swore viciously, pacing back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Block the doorway,” he said finally.

“Majesty, we can’t,” one of the jötnar said. “We still have people down there.”

“I know,” Laufey growled, “but the Spearbreaker cannot set foot here. Ice the ways.”

Three jötnar dashed forward, holding their palms out and directing the ice at the doorway. It was a complex weave of patterns, twisting and turning within themselves so to offer a stronger result — if one died, then the barrier would still hold. It also muffled the sounds of the battle.

The atmosphere was tense. Occasionally, there would be a sound that managed to get through the barrier — a scream, the clang of a weapon, the howl of a wolf — and the jötnar guarding the entrance twitched every time. Then, there was the unmistakeable sound of hooves.

_Sleipnir._

The ice barrier was blasted apart by Gungnir’s fire, and the jötnar stormed forward. The swords of the Kingsguard met them. Blood, both red and blue, flew in every direction as well as bodies. Steel and ice flashed, electricity crackling in the air from Einherjar weapons. But Loki’s eyes fell to Odin. He hadn’t brought Sleipnir with him, possibly because of the tight wind of the staircase that would have been a disadvantage on horseback, and he fixed his eyes on Laufey. Laufey snarled across the space, summoning his ice blade to his arm.

Odin came forward, Gungnir held tight, before he came to one of the _goðar_ and stabbed him straight through the chest. He dropped, but the other _goðar_ didn’t so much as flinch. Laufey charged forward, swinging his blade, but it passed straight through Odin. An apparition.

The real Odin was at the other side of the room, and two more _goðar_ lay dead at his feet.

“No!” Laufey roared.

“It’s over,” Odin said. He advanced on Gullveig, but Laufey was coming to meet him, sword raised high—

Odin smote Gullveig where she sat. The _seiðr_ broke with a _BOOM_. Everyone, including Odin and Laufey, were thrown back, swept off their feet by the explosion. Gullveig’s body was burning, and she screamed, writhing on the ground. Odin scrambled back to his feet and silenced her, stabbing her through the head.

Laufey roared, shooting spikes of ice at Odin.

“My king—” Týr started, but Odin threw him a look.

“No, you will not interfere. I will fight this battle.”

Laufey sneered.

And so the battle between kings, the battle Loki had heard of so many times, the battle whispered amongst those of Asgard who treated it like legend, began. Loki saw, from the corner of his eye, Býleistr had crawled out of his hiding place to watch from the shadows.

Laufey swung at Odin, the ice clanging against Gungnir. Odin was thrown back by the strength of the blow, stumbling away from the Casket. Laufey advanced on him, a hand planted on the top of the Casket and the ice blade aimed at Odin. The winds screamed as ice flew through the air, great swathes of it following Odin around the Temple chamber. Odin ran for cover, but Laufey had backed him into a corner. Odin spun Gungnir in hand, fast enough to break the ice. Runes throbbed along the shaft, and Laufey snarled softly. He left the Casket, hefting his blade before striking towards Odin again. He jabbed and swiped, playing with the Allfather as a cat might with its food. Loki felt some sort of deep, sick disgust as he watched Laufey toy with Odin, enjoying watching him run and dance and retreat to the defence.

“Come now, Allfather,” Laufey called. “Stop running and _face me_.”

Odin was panting, and he did stop, his shoulders slumped. “Will you not try harder this time, then? Or will you only tease?”

Laufey hissed in response. His swings now held more power, more direction. But he still couldn’t seem to hit Odin. The Allfather dodged and parried the blows, crouching low and twirling Gungnir between his fingers like a child with a stick found by the riverside.

“Come and kill me,” Odin said, before he levelled Gungnir at Laufey and showered him with fire.

Laufey ducked, spiralling under the beam and lashing out at the spear with his sword. As Laufey knocked aside Gungnir, the errant blast of fire smote the arch under which Býleistr cowered. It cracked with the sound of thunder. And then the rock fell, collapsing on top of the brothers. Býleistr instinctively dropped the baby and held his hands above his head, screaming in both fear and effort as magic burst from his fingers. Rock and rubble fell around them both, directed away by the magic. But it was not enough. Býleistr was buried, and the baby …

The baby was screaming and screaming, protected from the fall only by the furs wrapped around it. Loki felt a corresponding pain along his back when the bundle hit the floor, and it drove him to a knee with a shout. A slab of rock had fallen directly over it, wedged over the bundle by a small outcropping and leaving barely enough room. The rock muffled the baby’s cries enough that it was missed.

Laufey’s blow had knocked Odin off-balance, and the jötunn king fell on the Allfather with a howl of triumph. His claws seemed to extend with ice as he reached for Odin’s eyes. The Allfather threw an arm up, but it was too late. Loki couldn’t help but flinch at the sound of Odin’s bellow of agony. Gungnir fell to the floor with a clatter as Odin sank to his knees, his hands to his face, drenched with shockingly scarlet blood. Laufey sneered. He pushed his foot into Odin’s throat and hissed, “Well now, Allfather, not so glorious after all, are you?”

Odin, however, hadn’t yet been defeated. He withdrew a dagger from his belt and, with a cry, plunged the blade into Laufey’s calf. The jötunn roared and recoiled, lifting his injured leg from Odin’s neck. The Allfather rolled away as Laufey struck at him, missing by mere inches. Odin took up Gungnir, turning around swiftly and dodging snake-quick blows from Laufey. His movements held far more grace than before, and his remaining eye burnt with gold.

The Second Sight of Odin.

Odin hefted Gungnir and, stepping past Laufey’s defence, plunged the blade in jötunn’s side. Laufey howled, clutching the shaft with pain-slackened fingers. Odin grimaced as he pulled Gungnir out and, with the back of the spear, struck Laufey’s feet from under him. The king fell to the floor, the stone cracking under his weight.

Ash fell slowly. It mixed with the gentle snowfall as Odin Allfather stood straight, panting heavily, and his hand trembling as he held Gungnir at Laufey’s throat. Blood flowed sluggishly down his face, and the gold in his eye faded. “I could kill you. I could annexe this realm and bring it under Æsir rule, erase everything here that you hold close to your heart.”

“‘Could’?” Laufey spat, coughing slightly. The wound to his side wasn’t lethal — only a gash, albeit a deep one. “Will you not? You have defeated me.”

“I have no wish to kill you, Laufey,” Odin said.

“You surely jest, _Allfather_ ,” Laufey mocked.

“No. I have watched over the Nine Realms for centuries, and do not think I have not turned my gaze upon Jötunheimr. _Hólmganga_ , is it not? When two opponents do battle? You leave the loser alive because of the shame in defeat, and that is enough for you.

“But as the victor, I cannot leave you with a simple warning. I will take your Casket, and it will never again return to Jötunheimr.”

“You can’t,” Laufey snarled, but Gungnir’s sharp point in his throat stilled him. Magic seeped from the tip into the jötunn’s skin, rendering his ice unreachable and paralysing his limbs.

Odin jerked his head to the side: a signal to Týr to take the Casket.

“Allfather, I beg you,” Laufey said desperately. “If you take it, then my people will die. The realm will die a slow, agonising death. Kill me, my generals, whoever, but leave the Fornvetr!”

“But, King Laufey, taking the Casket only brings more advantages to me.”

The Casket had fitted into the palm of Laufey’s hand, but it looked strangely big in Týr’s hands as he took it from the pedestal. As he did so, the shining runes of the Temple flickered and dimmed. The Æsir paid no heed, and Loki wondered if they could even see the runes. Laufey’s roar was of utter loss, and Loki understood at once. It was as if a dark cloud had passed over his heart, a slight thrumming of power sputtering out of existence like a candle blown out. A darkness he had felt every day of his life to such an extent he didn’t even realise it.

 _Thief. Murderer._ Asgardian. _Put it BACK—_

Odin jabbed down with Gungnir. A flash penetrated the air, and Laufey’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body went limp.

“Rally the Einherjar, Týr,” Odin murmured, his single eye still on the unconscious Laufey. “The war is over. Sound the horn.”

The Einherjar bowed and left the Temple, the Casket clutched tightly within their midst. Odin cast a regretful look over his shoulder before he strode to the entrance.

A hiccupping sob broke the silence. Geri and Freki barked and Odin froze, his grip on Gungnir tightening. His single eye slid over the shadows, searching for the source of the sound. Another cry filled the air, and Odin edged forward to where the baby had been hidden. Odin upturned the rubble with a nudge of Gungnir, and the stone was moved away by a burst of magic. The baby’s screams grew louder as Odin levelled the weapon at it, just as he had done to its sire mere moments before. But he did not strike, only held the spear where it was as the baby’s wails echoed through the room. It was the sobbing of a tiny heart that cooled the rage of battle. Odin took Gungnir away after half a minute, and then crouched and took the bundle up.

Loki padded forwards, half expecting the wolves to tear him to pieces, half expecting Odin to turn around and impale him through the chest as he had done the _goðar_ — had failed to do with his younger self — but he was merely an apparition, a spectator, helpless as Odin stared at the baby he held. In his arms, the baby was bigger than an Æsir child the same age, but not by much.

_I … I …_

A smile tugged at Odin’s mouth as his thumb traced the circular ridges on the baby’s forehead. Loki had to resist the urge to flinch as he felt a corresponding touch. The baby’s cries quietened and it opened its eyes. A gurgle came from its throat as its skin began to change, paling from blue to pink.

Odin’s eye widened. “A shifter,” he murmured, “and a shifter of the line of Laufey, no less. You’re safe, little one. It’s alright.”

Loki was quivering, and he felt numb as a spark ignited between Odin’s fingers, a spark that he pressed into the baby’s forehead. Loki shuddered, and the impression of the barrier that had sealed his shifting from him was erected. The baby continued to gurgle quite happily, a tiny hiccup jumping in its chest.

“A gift of peace,” Odin said. “For Asgard.”

_Asgard…._

That was all he had been to Odin, wasn’t it? A tool for negotiation. The puppet he would have one day surely become placed on Jötunheimr’s throne. The monster of a son.

Loki howled.

Once again, the scene changed.

* * *

#

* * *

_Who am I?_

* * *

#

* * *

A distant wind whipped at his hair. Loki stumbled forward up a rock incline, shivering with what he had seen. He was too distracted to notice the four jötnar there until he almost walked into them. He stepped back blindly, a half-snarl upon his lips. Two were fully grown, their skin rough and their heritage lines dark; the other two — both male — were merely children. They stood at the adult female’s side, and even though their markings were different, they looked enough like her that he could see she was their dam. No, their markings … their markings….

The horns of the adult male told of his royalty. His hair was long, hanging to his mid-back, and threaded with brightest silver. He was tall and covered with scars that spoke of a lifetime of fighting. And flying in the wind at his throat was a wolf’s head pebble.

Loki was frozen to the spot as the jötunn turned his head to whisper into the ear of the she-jötunn at his side. She leant towards him, her eyes half-closed as her arm curved about his waist. He couldn’t see their features in the low light, but he felt sick to his stomach when he saw them claim the others’ lips hungrily.

“This is your future,” the jötunn whispered, looking at him with eyes that burned like fire as he pulled away from the kiss. His teeth and fingers flashed brightly with crimson blood as he spoke, and it was smeared in the she-jötunn’s hair as he caressed it with a gentle touch. “Skuld has spoken.”

Below them on the fields of Jötunheimr, death reigned free as Einherjar and jötnar slaughtered each other without mercy. And their screams flew on the air like ashes.

“Skuld has spoken, and you will be great.”

* * *

#

* * *

The visions were darkening, receding.

Loki coughed, and his fingers gave a violent spasm. He opened his eyes blearily, his vision doubling as the ceiling of his chambers swum into view. He blinked it away, and a high-pitched ringing sounded in his ears. Moaning quietly, he moved his elbow beneath him and pushed himself up on shaking arms. His throat felt raw, and he spat on the ground.

“You were screaming. What did you see that made you scream like that?”

Loki whipped his head around so fast his neck cricked. He thought at first that he had imagined the voice as something from the lingering dream — for he thought was alone, lying in his bed covered in furs and blankets. A shift in the corner of his vision, and Loki’s eyes snapped to Býleistr. He was standing half in shadow at the closed door to the room, watching him.

“Pain. The war,” Loki answered thickly. “The end of it.” He felt slow and stupid, a side effect of the marmennill blood no doubt, and his mind was swimming with what he had seen: the alternate path, the war … the future. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, and he wiped them away angrily as he fixed his gaze on Býleistr. He stood on trembling legs and said, “You loved me.”

“I did.” Býleistr shifted his weight to his other leg and crossed his arms. “But I cannot do so now, even though my heart yearns for it, I cannot. I thought for years that your death was my fault. I dropped you, and I thought you crushed by the rock. Always, I thought that if I hadn’t dropped you, then my brother would have lived. I was right. You’re not my brother anymore. You’re the thing that took away the Fornvetr. You’re what I hate more than anything in the worlds — Asgardian.”

“I’m not Asgardian,” Loki said lowly. He looked to his hands and the lines upon them, swallowing thickly. Bright memories of the Nóttvísa coiled within his mind. “I am jötunn.”

Býleistr didn’t seem convinced. “Of body, perhaps, but not of mind. You were supposed to be my beloved younger brother, the brother whom I would have been able to confide everything in, who would have run with me and played just as I did within the bones of our broken realm. And you were supposed to be the brother who loved me back just as dearly. I thought you were dead, and I had made my peace with that, but you couldn’t just stay _dead_ , could you? I had enough reminders of you already.”

Loki grit his teeth. “I won’t apologise for who I am, or what happened to me, and I will not change for you. Hate me if you want, mourn for me, but I am who I am, whether you like it or not.” He raised his chin. “At the celebrations, you said you never heard the end of what had happened on that night — what happened after Odin took me? What — _happened_?”

Býleistr looked at Loki sharply, lip curled in a mirthless laugh. “I suffered, and I deserved it.”

He spoke a word — a string of a cantrip. A glamour swum across his skin, and Loki thought at first Býleistr was casting some sort of spell, but then he realised with a jolt he was removing one. The glamour receded, peeling away like a second skin from Býleistr’s chest, and Loki had to force his breathing to remain even and calm as the last of it faded.

Býleistr’s flesh was covered thick scars — four huge claw marks that marred his skin and were nothing like the delicate heritage lines. They covered the left of his chest, his shoulder, and even the side of his face. When it would have happened, he would have been shredded and bloodied tremendously. It explained the roughness of his skin: it was scar tissue.

Býleistr held his arms out to the sides, and fixed his eyes on Loki with the utmost gravity. They were mismatched, Loki saw — one was damaged.

“Are you satisfied?” he asked. “This was what I suffered because of what happened; what our sire did to me in his rage.”

“Laufey did this?” Loki whispered.

“He did not mean to,” Býleistr said, “but it happened. When he woke after Odin left, I was sitting next to him having battled my way out of the rock and wanting his help to find you — I was frantic. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he lashed out at me, thinking I was an enemy in his disorientation. I remember through the pain and the magic his grief — one of my worst memories in a trove of them. It’s one of the reasons why Helblindi is so young — because Dam took such a long time to forgive Sire for what he did to me, even if it was by accident. She blamed herself as well; if she had gone with us as our sire wished in the first place, none of this would have happened. You would have grown up jötunn, I would not carry these scars or be half-blind in my eye, and Helblindi would be gaining his horns sooner for he would have been born earlier.”

Loki swallowed, shaking his head at the same moment. “I will not pity you; pity is useless,” he said finally.

“And I did not ask for it.” Býleistr restored the glamour with a quick flick of his fingers, and the scars were once again covered. “You would have found out sooner or later, and I showed you so not to postpone the inevitable. You say that none of us care, but that is hardly true. Dam stripped herself of her warrior’s marking, she grew her hair she mourned so deeply, and Sire was never the same after you were taken; he became harsher, more secluded, and something left his eyes that I only saw again when Helblindi was born. There were nights I thought that they too had died because they were so empty and hollow. Just remember that, Hveðrungr, before you throw their love back in their faces.”

Býleistr gave him a pointed look as he left.

Loki’s dreams that day were full of a mad god in shining armour. Shadow wolves prowled at his feet, and his empty eye wept tears of blood. In his crimson hands he carried away a sapphire child to a sky that blazed with colours and stars. And over it all, Loki could hear with agonising clearness Býleistr screaming under Laufey’s wrath, “Ek hriða ok sínum!”

Words he finally had the courage to unravel:

_I care too much._


	26. Chapter Twenty-Two - Kyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

Loki heard another tray being placed on the floor outside his rooms, and the previous, untouched one being taken away. He hadn’t emerged for nights, watching the last of the Nóttvísa celebrations from the window. He just didn’t have any energy, and spent much of his time sleeping. At least when he could stay asleep.

Images, things he would sooner call _memories_ than _dreams_ , screamed through his mind. He jerked awake almost every time, panting aloud and with the word — no, the _name_ — “Hveðrungr” upon his lips. Norns, he hated the feeling of it in his mouth; how _alien_ it sounded. He was _Loki_ , he wasn’t this _Hveðrungr_ , he wasn’t the brother that Býleistr had lost, the son that Laufey and Fárbauti had had taken.

But it wasn’t the only thing contributing to his misery. When he’d bitten his claws off before he had drunk the marmennill blood, he’d cut up his mouth in the process. Several small cuts on his lips and chin had become infected, badly. It left his face feeling tender and sore and full of pus, and the most infuriating thing was he couldn’t do anything about it. He didn’t know what kind of bacteria had gotten into the cuts. He couldn’t heal them, and had to instead rely on a flaky paste that he put on nightly. He would scar, of that he was sure. ~~~~

What distressed him all the more was how the marmennill blood had left him standing with his blood kin. Norns knew how much he wanted to hate them, and to hate them through an uncomplicated channel — they were jötnar, and they had ruined him — but he couldn’t bring himself to cling to the simple excuse of that anymore. Sometimes, he hated how he never forgot things.

He focused his hatred onto Fárbauti mostly, for it was through her deception that this had happened. She had come to him the night after he had woken, but he had been too exhausted to do anything other than look at her and then go back to looking out the window, trying to fight off sleep.

 _“Just remember that, Hveðrungr, before you throw their love back in their faces.”_ It was a hard ask when they were making it so damn easy.

“You haven’t changed my mind,” he had said to her, refusing to turn back.

“It would be a miracle if I had managed to change your mind,” she said. “But you needed to understand. I couldn’t just tell you — I had to show you.”

“I hate you,” he spat quietly, battling to keep tears at bay. “I hate you….”

All she had said in reply was, “I’m sorry,” before she left, placing a fresh jar of ointment on the table. It just made him hate her all the more.

Loki was thinking of that as he rubbed the last of it into the mostly healed scratches, screwing the lid back on and slamming it forcibly on the shelf next to the obsidian mirror. With the emptying of the jar, he had nothing left in this room to stay for. It stank of sweat and body odour, and the ultimate truth was that Loki was finally getting tired of the airless place — there came a point where even he exhausted of isolation and his brooding turned into boredom. He straightened up and breathed in deeply, locking his fingers behind his head in a stretch. Then he opened his eyes and stared warily at himself.

Then with slightly trembling fingers, he reached for his reflection, tracing the heritage lines on the obsidian. His other hand came back to his face, brushing over the lines on his chin. He startled at the first touch, flinching back at the almost strange hypersensitivity, but swallowed and continued on.

He’d moped around enough. It was all he had been doing for the past six months, and even he was getting sick of it. He would find some kind of damn acceptance with himself, just make it something he had to live with. He’d have to if he wanted any sort of chance to emerge from his pathetic self-pity.

_I am Loki. I am jötunn. I am a prince of Jötunheimr._

His fingers moved to the heritage lines on his cheekbones, following them up to his eyes and the marks touching his eyebrows, mapping them out. From there they went to those on his forehead, and then he found his horns. He gripped the bases of them tightly, running his fingers over the bumpy ridges as he had done the heritage lines. He traced them up to the points, pressing the tips of his fingers into them.

And then the revulsion and dysphoria came back with no hint of warning. He looked away from the mirror, breathing heavily through his nose as he stumbled back into the main room. He groped blindly for the furs, bringing them around his shoulders when he found them and curling into a ball on the bed.

 _Calm down_ , he told himself as he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. _Calm down. Control yourself._

He breathed deeply through his nose, holding the breath for a few seconds before exhaling through his mouth. It was difficult to do through the tightness of his chest. He listened intently as his heartbeat slowed to its normal pace. The revolting odour of the furs eventually drove him to his feet. He couldn’t look at himself any more, a tight uncomfortableness in his throat. He needed to leave.

He didn’t go far, picking the tray of food up from the floor outside the doors — which he left open —and merely moving to the solar. He ate little of what was there despite how hungry he was. From where he had piled all the cushions and furs on the couch, he could see the distant spires of the Temple out the window. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, thoughts racing with garbled nonsense as he thought about what he had seen. He suddenly felt restless, and he thought wildly just how the Hel had he managed to stay in the same room for eight nights without _moving_.

He got to his feet after a couple of minutes, combing his frankly disgusting and snarled hair back with his fingers as he shouldered the doors to the solar open. He regretted not bringing his cloak almost at once, but he was too focused on his task to turn back and get it.

Loki’s mind was single-tracked as he came to the doors leading to the courtyard, pushing them open roughly. He suppressed a shiver at the temperature — it had snowed during the day, and there were several jötnar clearing the courtyard. Flakes still drifted from the sky, catching in his hair, but Loki didn’t bother to wipe them away. The jötnar dipped their heads to him as he stormed to the wrecked gates, but he didn’t register their existence more than that; his gaze was fixed on the Temple. He couldn’t bring himself to care about the murmuring they offered to him either.

But what he did notice was the scars from the war. The cracks and slices in the stone road made by Æsir and jötunn blades alike. His toe caught in one of the deeper ones, and he traced the outline of it, a morbid reverence tight in his chest. Growing up, he had been on the side of victory in the war, but to have the tables turned, to have the scars of it so prominent … it was different. Did the jötnar view such a thing as they viewed the scars on their bodies in battle? Like the collection of them that Loki was gaining? His gripped the scars on his shoulder from Herkir’s claws as he strode the rest of the way to the Temple, the doors opening without any sort of prompting from him; horseshoe prints were still slightly visible on the door.

“Loki-Prince,” an apprentice _gyðja_ said, jogging up to him and bowing deeply. “How can I be of service?”

“Fetch Skrýmir,” Loki said in the Jötunn tongue.

The girl, who had previously addressed him in the Allspeak, said in Jötunn, “Of course, Your Highness. Does my prince wish for a cloak?”

“No,” Loki said. “Skrýmir will meet me in the top chamber. He will hurry.” Then he swept past her, heading to the staircase.

He didn’t meet anyone on the way up, and he considered it a small blessing. The temperature seemed to have fallen when he reached the open chamber, and he paused in the doorway, looking at the Casket’s pedestal. The numerous carvings upon the stone there had throbbed with light and power once, but now they were as dead as everything else. Loki took a deep breath through his nose before he crossed the chamber towards the small off-shooting corridor where Skrýmir had hidden Býleistr. Loki stopped a pace or two from the broken, jagged arch, his gaze turned to the floor.

Whereas the arch was blackened with soot, the stone on the lower section of the wall was scraped and chipped, evidence to the fallen blocks. The outcropping that had saved Loki’s life more than a thousand years ago still existed; it appeared to be nothing more than a skirting board. He crouched to examine it, running his fingers over the icy rock. He felt very _mortal_ seeing it now, knowing what it had done for him.

“You summoned me, Your Highness.”

Loki, so half-caught in memory, had missed Skrýmir’s approach. He didn’t let the surprise show. He stood, refusing to look around. His fists clenched by his sides. “You helped Fárbauti drug me,” he said flatly. “I heard you talking with her.”

“You heard, Your Highness?” the _goði_ asked.

“I’ve always been a light sleeper.”

“I apologise, Your Highness. It is my duty to perform any direct order given by my queen-consort.”

Loki seethed inwardly. He didn’t care for Skrýmir’s defence. He wouldn’t easily forgive or forget the _goði_ had done. Ignorance was something that, he had learnt the hard way, really was bliss.

“Why did she do it?” he bit out.

“She believed it would help you, Your Highness.”

“It’s helped piss me off,” he said, voice cracking a little.

“My prince,” Skrýmir said, and Loki didn’t think he imagined the slight hesitance in the two words, “know that the queen-consort holds your best interests at heart.”

It was the last thing Loki wanted to hear. He glared at the faded silencing rune scratched onto the wall, lip pulled back. “Get out. I’m not looking for your explanations.” _For anything_.

But as Skrýmir bowed and turned to leave, Loki asked quietly, “Did they really mourn?”

“Deeply, Your Highness. We all did,” Skrýmir answered before he bowed again and disappeared down the stairs. Loki was tempted to, wanted to, call him a liar, but he couldn’t, not when the truth was so obvious in his tone.

Loki had never imagined he would be one to mourn for the past, especially for a past he couldn’t remember without the help of some bullshit magic, but there was a definite numbness in his chest as he prowled around the top chamber for a long time afterwards, memories of what he had been shown through the blood haunting him. But eventually, he stopped where he had started, brushing his fingers over the rune before sliding down the wall. Wind bit fiercely into the tears spilling down his cheeks, and he wiped them away, angry. He was furious with himself for weeping; he was harder than that.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Loki didn’t look up as Býleistr sat beside him, folding his arms over his knees and gazing at the opposite wall. “Why are you not surprised?” Loki asked, taking his hand away from his eyes.

“You brood too much,” Býleistr said. “It makes you predictable.”

“Are you always so irritating?”

“I try my hardest.” Býleistr sighed. “I may not know you, Loki, but I do. From what I’ve seen, we think in a similar way.”

Loki bit his tongue at that; Býleistr’s words stung. “When have you shown such concern?” he asked. “You consider your brother dead, and yet you seek me. Make up your mind, Býleistr; either I am dead or am not, either I am jötunn or not, and either you care or you don’t. There’s no middle ground here. ‘I care too much’? Fuck you.”

“I’m still … What’s the phrase you use? ‘Finding my feet’?”

“Find them fast; my patience is worn.”

Býleistr gave a low laugh in his throat before he rocked to his feet, rolling his shoulder before jerking his head back towards the castle. “Come. How about you stop brooding for a night?”

“I’m still finding my feet,” Loki said, a hint of snark in his voice. But he got up, brushing his hair from his eyes before walking briskly to the stairs. Then he stopped, looking back at Býleistr. “I’ve found this hard,” he said. “My world was torn down in a heartbeat, and then a new one thrust on me with no warning. You say we think alike, and so just imagine yourself in my position. Do not blame me.”

“I will,” Býleistr said, “if you imagine yourself in mine. This hasn’t been easy for me either, and you’ve buried your head in the ice.”

Loki laughed hollowly. If Býleistr wanted him to acknowledge his behaviour to his face, he was going to be waiting for a long time. “You’re not helping.”

“I know,” Býleistr said, “but it’s helping me get my frustration with you out.”

Loki felt a stab of anger, very similar to the anger he had felt towards Thor on more than one well-deserved occasion. _No._ _He’s not my elder brother. Not really._ Norns, he didn’t even _like_ Býleistr, more so he heartily disliked him. The marmennill blood would not change Loki’s mind.

“Do we have a deal?” Býleistr asked. “Will you see this more in my position, and then I yours?”

“I’ll think on it,” Loki said finally.

Býleistr lifted an eyebrow. “Then think on it in the bath; you stink.”

* * *

#

* * *

At dawn five nights later, Loki had descended into a troubled, hard-won sleep, and when he woke the next eventide, a shiver broke across his skin. He rolled over, restless, and he shook his head as he sat up, clutching the furs to his shoulders as the shivering intensified. The temperature had not dropped to further depths as far as he could tell, but something was not sitting right within him. He tried to calm himself, but it was no use; the shivering did not stop. He felt uncomfortable and he squirmed.

_But why? I—_

And it crashed onto him as to the reason why.

“No,” Loki moaned. He felt like there was a pool of fire in his lower belly, licking itself across his flesh. Felt like his bones were freezing and a million little pins pricked at him. He rolled quickly onto his feet, flinging the furs away and pelting to the bathroom. He collapsed against the trough of continuously running water, breathing sharply through his nose and digging his short claws into the ice. Oh Norns, it was here, it was finally here.

His _kyn_.

Loki knelt and plunged his face into the water, the freezing temperature of it shocking him awake, but not helping much with the fire. He just gave up and, not even bothering to think about filling the bigger bath behind him, rolled into the trough, submerging himself as much as possible and squeezing his eyes shut. The water felt good, finally calming some of his nerves. But he couldn’t help but palm distractedly at his cock for a few seconds, no longer hard from just his usual morning erection. He felt uncomfortable and humiliated like he hadn’t done for centuries, and he was suddenly determined to not touch himself too excessively.

When finally the cramped space became too much for him, Loki hauled himself out of the trough and stomped back into the main room, dripping wet and not entirely sure that he wanted to get into something dry. He went to the door, opening it and yelling for someone to bring him something to eat — someone was always lurking.

Sure enough, Bryja came up with a tray of food five minutes later. She eyed Loki’s still dripping hair and skin and asked, “Would you like a towel, Your Highness?”

“No,” Loki said stiffly. “Give me that.”

As Bryja walked past him and set the food on the table, Loki caught a whiff of an intoxicating smell. He turned to her, wondering if she had any more food, but she didn’t. When she shut the door behind her, Loki sniffed at the air, trying to find the smell again, but it was gone. He felt something stir in his gut, and he realised what it was with a jolt of horror.

Pheromones. He had smelt the she-jötunn’s _pheromones_.

Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t left the doors to the rooms open yesternight; the smell of sweat would have been enough to cover the pheromones. He guessed. Even so, he went somewhat hopefully to the furs on the bed, pulling them to his nose. To his disappointment, they’d been washed. He swore under his breath and did the only other thing he could think of: bolt the door shut and close the shutters tight over the windows. Then he ate his breakfast and tried not to be swept away by the panic engulfing him.

* * *

#

* * *

The first week was a new kind of Hel for Loki. Jötunheimr had woken something inside of him that had increased the urges he had had during the winter months in his Æsir skin tenfold. He was, on some level, scared of it. During the night, he didn’t leave his chambers unless he absolutely had to — after all, the kingdom still had to function. Coming back after court, his lessons, and his other duties was a blessed relief. He collapsed onto the bed, biting his tongue and squeezing his eyes shut as the heat built in his gut again and again, despite his own efforts to offer himself release. It would work only for a small amount of time, and he knew it. His own attentions would not suffice for the potential month and a half the _kyn_ could last.

 _“You’ll never survive the winter,”_ Angrboða had told him, and he had laughed it off, scoffed at it, but no. It was the idea of lying with a jötunn that turned him away, no matter what his biology was screaming at him to do. He couldn’t mentally prepare himself. Living amongst them he had come to grudgingly accept, but participating in the act of sex was something else entirely. It was agony to resist, but resist he did, despite the royal family’s all-around exasperation and frustration with his short temper and tendency to snarl at anyone who so much as looked at him.

But despite it, he didn’t see much of Býleistr, Laufey, or Fárbauti over the nights, but he heard them all. He had tried to cast magic a few times to block the noises, cursing how close the proximity of the royal quarters were. But his spells were ineffective; his concentration was stolen by both them and the crying need of his body to feel another’s pressed against him, aching to be buried inside someone else, or to be taken.

And it was _hard_. Many of the she-jötnar had grown tired of trying to entice him, many of the weaker ones giving him up for a bad job, and went on their ways to find their own bed partners. But there were several who remained chaste enough to wait for him to come to them and ask them back to his rooms. Some, like Haera had done, asked him directly for sex, but he rejected every single one of them.

It didn’t relent even without them around. Loki could smell other jötnar in the corridors, their scents lingering on the air, even where they had touched the walls. A couple of times, he stumbled across jötnar rutting in shadowy corners, retreating before they spotted him. Another time, maybe two nights after the start of his _kyn_ , Loki had knocked his shoulder accidently into a servant’s. The smell of his pheromones had driven him to a standstill for several heartbeats in which he and the jötunn had stared at each other, noses twitching and eyes wide. Loki had finally turned away, almost running in his desperation to escape when had started to think how the jötunn wasn’t that bad looking beneath his blue skin. He had locked himself in his chambers, hastily reciting in his mind war speeches Búri had given he had been forced to memorise with Thor as children.

But like all things, Loki had a tipping point, a point where he just couldn’t ignore it for any longer lest he burn from the inside out. A point he found a week and a half after his _kyn_ came on him.

At the heart of it, it was an accident, and he would have called it coincidence if he had believed in such a thing.

It was not uncommon for him to wake during the day, his body desperate for company. His cock was erect and distractingly painful, reminiscent of the early days of his adolescence when his body had begun to change from that of a boy’s to a man’s. He had gone to sleep well before dawn, and the sun wasn’t at its full height when he pulled the curtain back a fraction. Normally when he woke during the day, he had gone to the bathroom to take care of the problem before going back to sleep, but he was wide-awake for some Norns-forsaken reason. After he returned from the bathroom, scrubbing at his eyes to rid the spots from his vision, and pulled his cloak from the chair he had dumped it on. He wrapped it tightly around his shoulders before stomping out. The atrium beyond his chamber was quiet, his blood kin fast asleep. It suited him well — if he were careful, no one would know he had been prowling the corridors.

He snuck on silent feet through to the solar before he slipped out and took off down the outside corridor, making the random decision to turn right at the end. He was ever vigilant for signs of life, whether they be a late-day servant or a troop of guards.

He was lucky, he supposed, for he made it to the bottom of the main staircase after only a single detour to avoid a guard. He stood unmoving at the foot for a long while, breathing deeply, before he caught sound of movement from the left. He looked around, wild, but it wasn’t a guard, or even a servant.

It was Sigyn.

And at the sight of her, something animalistic woke inside him, a purring monster that longed after her — the primal desire to _mate_. His buried feelings for her bubbled to the surface of his mind, and he hummed deep in his throat.

She was facing away from him, picking quietly along the corridor as if she were a thief in the night. Loki wondered what she was doing — he saw no reason for her to be up, and much less to be down here. Her quarters were floors up, as were those belonging to the rest of the she-jötnar.

Loki made a split second decision, moving after her and ignoring the voices of logic that were telling him to slip away quietly. “Sigyn.”

Sigyn jumped and stumbled back against the corridor wall, eyes wide as Loki moved towards her. “My prince, I—”

“Shh.” He held a finger to her lips, a bare inch away from her skin. She fell silent at once, staring at him with a hint of trepidation. Now he was close enough to touch her, Loki could smell her own pheromones surrounding her like a cloud. And if she wasn’t one of the best things he had ever smelt, then he didn’t know what else could have pleased him more. He lowered his finger and asked, “Why aren’t you asleep? Everyone else is.”

“You aren’t either.”

Loki clucked his tongue. “Such familiarity, Lady Bláinsdóttir.”

“I-I-I meant, you’re not asleep, my prince, or …,” Sigyn stuttered.

“Rutting.” He cocked his head to the side. “Why are you not asleep?”

“I couldn’t,” Sigyn said quietly. “My _kyn_ , and I … I was … I was hungry, Your Highness,” she continued, her cheeks darkening as she blushed, twisting her hands into the material of her _kjilt_. “I was just going to the kitchens to see if they had anything left from the dawn meal.”

“Why not get someone to bring it to you?”

“I am used to getting my own things; it’s how it is at home. My family is a low House, Highness, and we have three servants to our name, including the steward. My sire and my dam, they were born to the common people, and they are used to doing everything themselves. Even now when there are over three hundred servants waiting for my beck and call, old habits die hard.”

Loki hummed and tipped his head down the corridor. “Well?”

“Highness?”

“You are still hungry, are you not?” He only noticed the double-entendre after it had left his lips. He didn’t often miss things like that, but considering where his head was right now, he wasn’t surprised. And perhaps where Sigyn’s might have been. Considering what she had said in the garður af íss, she might have caught of it, too. After all, she had said she was interested in him, and that her _kyn_ was bothering her.

“My prince,” she said, embarrassment colouring her voice, “you need not accompany me. I would rather prefer I do this myself, if His Highness does not mind.”

Loki grabbed for the excuse to leave. “If that is what you wish, then I will encroach on your time no further. Good day.” Part of him was furious; what was he _doing_? Norns, this was the opposite to what his baser nature wanted.

But as he turned away, Sigyn blurted, “Wait.”

Loki stopped and pivoted back on his heel, hands hanging loose by his sides. Sigyn’s shoulders were stiff, her throat working furiously. There was steel in her eyes, Loki saw.

And then she closed the distance between them with a single step. Loki’s breath caught in his throat when she stood on her toes, their noses bumping awkwardly as she kissed him. He didn’t respond to her lips at once. He closed his eyes as he started to kiss her back, tracing the lines on her cheek with his thumb and breathing in the scent of _her_. But as he turned his head to a better angle, he froze against her lips, quivering, his breath steaming on the air as he realised what he was doing. Sigyn placed her hands on either side of his face and renewed the kiss, nipping at his still lips and he fought to move them again; it was a difficult thing to do.

His mind was racing, at complete opposites to what it had been when they had kissed before. How could she have born to kiss something as monstrous as he? How she could desire after the blue of his flesh and the red of his eyes and the bestial horns curving from his brow? But she was just like him in body — she was jötunn. But another, deeper part of him was so starved for this sort of intimacy and he found he needed it desperately, needed it like he needed air and the ice and snow; he needed it to feed the lustful beast inside of him, to stop it ripping him apart.

Finally, Sigyn pulled away, and Loki would have been lying if he had denied his heart had wilted some. “I’m sorry, my prince,” she said suddenly, fright lining her voice. “I don’t know what—”

“No,” Loki mumbled, fighting back the choke in his voice. He fell against the wall, wrapping his arms about himself and closing his eyes. Panic ate at him. “How could you look upon what I am and want it?” It didn’t matter that his mind was screaming and clawing at his very soul to dive into her mouth and revel in the slide of her tongue against his, to press his hips into hers and to give him that most intimate part of himself and surrender to what he was — savage and wild and ice and magic and _free—_

“What?”

It was the confusion in her voice that forced his head up, and he pulled his eyes away from her at once. His heart was aching and he pushed himself upright. He had to fight his desires, to spare himself the disappointment of rejection; he thought it might have otherwise been the final straw upon the horse’s back. Angrboða had been right — he wouldn’t survive the winter.

“You are beautiful, my prince.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head the tiniest of amounts. “No. I am _this_ ,” he said stiffly, walking away from her. “All I can see in myself is the enemy I’ve been taught to fear my whole life. I … I can’t do it to myself; I can’t ignore it.” But he wanted to, he _wanted_ to….

“I want you, Your Highness; I have wanted you ever since I first saw you standing above all of Jötunheimr and proclaimed yourself Prince.”

He turned to look back at her, silently pleading her to spare him the silly, worthless, unwanted sentiment he craved so desperately — for an excuse to lie with her. She reached for his shoulder, and as her hand rested there in a gesture of solidarity and comfort, Loki couldn’t stand it anymore. “ _Look at me!_ ” he roared, voice stripped of every shred of dignity.

Her lip trembled as she stepped further towards him. He stepped back, upper lip curled in a half-snarl, hunching in on himself in an effort to hide.

“I am,” she told him, “and I see what you have told me you are, but I see so much more than that, and yet _I still want you_.”

He uncoiled his body and slammed her against the wall by the throat. The ice trembled as she crashed into it. His eyes were blazing with anger as he drew himself up before her like a snake about to strike. “Why come closer to the _beast_?”

Sigyn was still beneath his grip. “I see no beast. I see you, all of you — the ás prince and the jötunn prince. I’ve seen you as you are at ease. If you think yourself a beast, Highness, then forgive me when I say you are wrong.”

“Are you patronising me?” he asked, fighting back the wetness of his eyes. Norns, it was _humiliating_.

“No.”

And as her fingers traced his jaw, the animal part of him that burned with carnal need, with his want for her, won over his rational mind. He released her throat and leant in to her lips, and this time, this time she did not let go. She kissed him back with increasing ferocity, and it was hard to drown out the inner part of him was howling with disgust. How could he do this?! How could he desire a _she-jötunn slut_ of all things? He had endured; he could do so for longer. But the newest part of him, the part of him that had cried out with sheer joy at Jötunheimr’s Voice, that had mourned for Býleistr’s pain, that drunk in Sigyn’s shallow breaths and whispered praises between their kisses, praises like water to a man dying of thirst, that was tired of fighting _every damn thing_ , cut it down viciously. He was already a monster, so he may as well embrace it, sex and all. He didn’t have the right to lie with any of the Æsir seeing as he was what he was. And Sigyn … _Sigyn_ ….

He brushed his teeth down her neck, savouring the slight hint of salt on her skin, and the tip of his tongue danced lightly over her heritage lines. Sigyn shivered underneath him, her breath hitching in her chest as he came to her clavicle and nuzzled it. His heart pounded against his ribs, yearning for her to not push him away when he most needed her acceptance of what he was — a creature caught between two different natures. His longing for her was suddenly more than physical. Rejection at this point would have killed him.

 _Please I need this I_ need _this more than life itself._

She licked his neck, following the heritage lines. Her tongue was rough like a cat’s, and Loki couldn’t help but purr. He swallowed the noise down at once, mortification creeping through him. He hadn’t done that since he was very small, after he had discovered that he was the only one in Asgard who could do it. He had endeavoured never to make the sound again, but it had slipped out, and he was angrier for the momentary loss of self-control more than anything. But Sigyn was purring in turn as she ran the flat of her tongue over his skin, burying her fingers into his hair. Loki turned his head to her neck, licking at it experimentally, and when the purr intensified, he did it again, cautioning his own purr. She held him ever tighter, and Loki let the apprehension go too; it felt good to let it go.

He came once more to her lips and kissed her deeply, pressing his thumb on her chin to open her mouth to him. Heat was pooling in his groin again.

“Sigyn,” Loki breathed, pulling his mouth away from their kiss. “Come.”

Her eyes were shining as she whispered back, “Of course, Your Highness. It would be my honour.”

“No,” he said, taking her head in his hands and kissing her lips twice in quick succession. “Loki. I am Loki.”

Loki had difficulty keeping his hands off her as they made their way back to the upper floors, and he was wondering wildly if everything was still the same with jötunn sex as it was with Æsir-ian. Once, a troop of guards — none of whom looked too happy — unexpectedly rounded a corner, and Loki had pulled Sigyn into an alcove in the wall, pulled her flushed against his chest and kissed her again, licking and scratching at her skin. He was so tempted to take her then and there, what with her scent filling his nostrils and her breath in his ear and the way her hands were moving down towards his hips, but he pulled his thoughts away from his cock, slipping into the solar and finding her mouth again almost instantly. He hadn’t even realised he’d been leading her back here.

“Come,” he said again, leading her up the tightly curving staircase and bolting to his chamber doors. Sigyn scampered in after him, and he kicked the door shut.

She was so warm and open, and her whispered praises in his ear encouraged him to go further, deeper, as he gave her everything. Her skin glittered with ice, and he pulled her to him, inhaling her scent of sweat and cold and such sweetness that it was nothing short of glorious. It made him feel _alive_. Her hair tangled around her neck, caught in her mouth and his horns when she threw her head back in ecstasy as she straddled his hips and rode him hard, a gasp in her mouth and a litany he answered upon her lips. And to him, her name was like a prayer as he towered over her in turn and pushed into her, as he grazed his teeth along her skin, and in the roar of his release before the cycle repeated as his _kyn_ demanded yet more of him.

“Mine,” he whispered as he sucked at and pressed kisses into her skin and nipped at the corner of her jaw. “Mine. Mine. _Sigyn_.”

And she was so beautiful, so _beautiful_ —

His thoughts were of nothing but of the twist and tangle of their limbs, the union between them that was hot and good and all consuming. Of the burning pleasure in his blood at the feel of her heat around him, of her hands upon him, of her lips and tongue and mouth working miracles that made his vision blur and the soft little ahs and strangled whines break from his throat.

_Wonderful, beautiful Sigyn._

And his name from her own mouth: “Loki, Loki, Loki.”

She was everything he needed.

 _Don’t leave me_ , he thought. _Prove me wrong about the jötnar — about_ you _. Please, prove me wrong. I’m begging you, Sigyn. Don’t let my vulnerability be for nothing._

It was a long while later that Sigyn fell asleep, curled around one of the pillows. Loki had been unable to fall asleep, unable to share the bed, even. He sat on the bay window, two thick furs pulled around his shoulders as he looked quietly at the sunbathed Útgarðar beneath. The sex was certainly the best he had had for a long time — for Sigyn seemed to know _exactly_ what to do to drive him to the heights of pleasure; common jötunn biology, he supposed — and it had left him feeling more satisfied than it had ever done before. The claw marks and bites she had left on him throbbed, the pain a pleasant ache.

And he wanted more.

He wanted to see Sigyn’s ecstasy as he gave her pleasure, wanted to see her shudder and cry out his name like it was a dying man’s mantra, wanted her to bite and tear at him and tug on his horns until he was nothing more than blood and bone. He wanted her everything, reminding him that there was _something_ in this realm that wasn’t a monster. He couldn’t help it, and it disgusted him to the extent his body refused to quiver with the urge to run. For the ache that had set into his chest whenever he looked at her that was disturbingly close to something his mind blanched from.

Loki was self-conscious of the tears that tracked down his face, and of the aching, pounding mess that was his heart. He’d lost himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it. The Logyn has been consummated. But I feel like I've let a lot of people down. Wondering why I didn't write explicit smut? Please see [my Tumblr post](http://aylithewriting.tumblr.com/post/113685759411/spoilers-for-jotunheimr-hey-guys-with-the-new) for the explanation (as it's quite long and I don't want to cram it down the bottom).


	27. Chapter Twenty-Three - The Afterglow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

When Sigyn awoke at eventide, the memories of the previous morning rushed back to her all at once.

_Loki._

She turned her head, her heart jumping with a slight confusion when she woke alone. But then, after a second of panic, she caught sight of him. Loki was sitting, fast asleep, on the bay window, his chin on his chest, and his arms wrapped loosely around himself. He looked much more peaceful asleep, she thought — his face smoother, more innocent, even. She would have thought he was happy if not for the dried tear tracks on his cheeks.

 _What is there to feel sad for?_ she wondered. _Why are you there? Surely that’s uncomfortable._

Sigyn’s eyes fell to the door as she heard a creak from the hinges. Her breath hitched ever so slightly when she saw Helblindi-Prince look in. Loki stirred, roused by the noise, and the door closed without a sound. He lifted his head and met her eyes. He froze for a fraction of a second as if he was startled by her presence, and Sigyn thought suddenly, _I should have left_. It was cut off when he smiled a little at her.

“Hello,” Sigyn whispered. “Good eventide.”

“Good eventide,” Loki breathed in reply.

The bed stunk of sex, and it was always something had found she disliked in a distracting way — the salty-sweet smell had always left her feeling somewhat queasy — but she hardly noticed it as Loki came back to the bed, kissing her much more gently than he had the day before. One of his horns pressed against the top of her head, but she wasn’t concerned with that either — her attention was only on the warmth of his lips, on his hand as it wound itself into her hair, his chest as he pressed it to hers. She noticed distractingly that they still wore nothing, but there was no shyness as she had sometimes found in the past the eventide after a coupling. She still bore his love-bites on her collarbones and the tips of her breasts, the marks of his teeth and claws over her body too, and she lamented that they would be gone by the dawn. She wanted him to claim her again, to mark her again as his. She had wanted that very few times in the past too. Suddenly, the idea of staying in this room all night with no thoughts of putting anything on was enticing indeed. What power did he have over her to elicit these kinds of reactions?

He jumped as her hand wandered down his body, tracing feather-light over the contoured muscle of his abdomen. She pulled her lips back from the kiss and asked softly, “Is that alright? May I touch you?”

Loki made a low noise in his throat before he nodded. She ran her fingers over his skin again, merely a touch to see if he would react, but if anything, he leant into it. She lay her palm on him, gripping his hip with her other hand as they brought their lips together again.

There was a soft knock on the door, and Loki twitched before sighing and getting up. He pulled the furs tighter around his shoulders, and Sigyn, doing her best to quell both her disappointment and the renewed ache of arousal between her legs, yawned in what she hoped looked like apparent nonchalance before she stretched out on the bed, shifting her legs to try and find a more tolerable position. She looked over to the door after a half minute, wondering what was taking so long. Loki was standing rather stiffly, shielding the room with his body, face-to-face with one of the servants before he dismissed her roughly. A tray of food was in his hands — enough for two. His mouth was drawn in a tight line as he went to the table, setting the tray down rather more aggressively than was necessary.

“What is it?” Sigyn asked, getting out of the bed and going to him. The insides of her thighs were crusted with dried fluids. She suddenly wanted a bath to freshen herself up.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

Sigyn thought of objecting — because something was clearly wrong — but decided against it. If he didn’t want to say anything, she wouldn’t push it. She’d always been good at reading others, and her gut instinct told her not to prod at him.

“Why were you sitting at the window?” she asked, taking up her plate.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said after a pause.

“Why?” she whispered. “Can I help?”

He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I can try to.”

He growled under his breath before saying firmly, “No.”

“Loki,” she said, and his name sounded odd on her tongue, like a thing she were forbidden to say. “Please. Whatever you fear, I can handle it. I will not judge you, and I will not scorn you. I want to help.”

“No,” he said again. He took her hands in his, looking at them as he said, uncomfortable, “Sigyn, do not think anything of this. I need this, but I don’t trust you, not enough for you to see my heart. I need you to understand that.”

“You are in pain,” she said. “I don’t want you to be. You say you do not trust me, but you have let me see much of your heart already.”

His grip tightened, and Sigyn froze. “Forgive me, my prince,” she whispered. “My tongue rules my head again.”

“I’d rather you be forward than do what they’re doing and ignoring me,” Loki said after a few heartbeats silence. “It’s a deserved slap in the face.”

She frowned. “But I haven’t …”

“Metaphor,” Loki muttered. “Never mind.”

They turned their attention to the food after that. Loki gave her all the fat from his half of the meat despite her protests. She ate it quickly, licking her fingers afterwards, and acutely aware that Loki was watching them. And then he was pressed into her skin, kissing her face and tugging her around, aligning his body with hers and pulling them together. Sigyn let out a gasp, trapping his head between her hands as he stood. Sigyn wrapped her legs around his waist, half-aware that he was carrying her back to the bed.

Whereas last morning had been a desperate, almost mindless rut between the two of them, now that both of their _kynar_ had been calmed, their lovemaking that eventide was slower, and much more sensual. It was an exploration of the other’s body, of learning what worked and what didn’t.

“You are beautiful,” Sigyn whispered in Loki’s ear. “You are beautiful, so beautiful.” His sharp breaths had been her response, the nibbles at her throat another, as was the resulting, roiling pleasure in her blood.

They left the bed when they were covered in chips of ice and sweat, picking their ways across the room into the bathing antechamber. The bath was filled, and they sat in it, pressed against each other’s chests as they brushed the ice off their backs and every other bit of exposed skin they could easily reach. Sigyn found herself kissing Loki’s neck for much of it, her hands working their ways blindly over him, her claws digging into his skin, trying to get under it to the bone, to become one with him so she never need let him go.

“Sigyn,” he breathed into her hair. “ _Sigyn._ ”

“Are we happy?” she asked after a while, when the water was dirty and starting to cool to freezing temperatures — ice ringed the sides of the tub.

“Happy?” Loki repeated, frowning his confusion.

“We enjoy the weight of each other, I think,” she said, running the backs of her claws over the lines. “Both actually and metaphorically. Are we happy as we are? Like this? Just enjoying each other’s company with the service of our _kyn_ on the side?”

“Do you tend to form romantic attachments with those whom you’ve lain with in the past?”

“Of course I don’t,” Sigyn said, looking at him. “That has always been for the _kyn_. Was it not the same for you?”

“Mostly.”

“You have loved someone before?”

“It was a long time ago.” When he offered nothing more for several more heartbeats, Sigyn felt the thread of the conversation fall away. Part of her wanted to ask about, if not the elusive individual Loki had mentioned, then about what his _kyn_ had been like in Asgard, and perhaps even ask if the Æsir experienced something like it.

“Was it happy?” she dared to ask. “Like this?”

“It was destructive,” Loki murmured.

She bit the tip of her tongue. He was opening to her, whether he was aware of it or not, and it gave her a shred of hope that maybe, miraculously, this could work. “We should get out,” she said after a while.

Loki made a noise of agreement.

Sigyn’s legs were stiff from lying at the awkward angle they had been at, and she stretched before Loki wrapped a towel around her, pressing a lingering kiss to her shoulder afterwards.

Sigyn, studiously brushing her hair, was contemplating whether to cast the towel away for the rest of the night when Loki said, “There was a summons for you. F— My dam wishes to speak to you before the midnight meal. She will be waiting for you in the solar.”

Well, there went that plan. “Of course.” Sigyn tied her hair off with her rawhide cord before she stood, reaching for her clothes still strewn across the floor.

Loki nodded. “We have a little time before that, though. My duties have been cleared for tonight.” Sigyn thought there was a slight bitterness in his voice, but she was mystified as to the source of it.

So she focused on the first part. “You already want more sex? After _that_? And after we just _washed_?”

Loki chuckled. “I was thinking we should do something that has neither jumping on the other like rabbits.”

Sigyn couldn’t help but feel a slight disappointment, and she frowned a little; what was a … a rabbit, had he said?

“What do you want to do, then?” she asked.

“If we’re to keep … keep doing _this_ —” he gestured around the room with a vague hand, “—then don’t you want to get to know each other better?”

Sigyn bit her tongue when he alluded to future nights, barely fighting down a squirm of delight.

 _Easy, Sigyn. You need to ease into this. Especially with someone like … like_ him _._

She didn’t want to label Loki as someone who was, at the heart of this, unsure. Who had vast problems with self-acceptance and bigger ones with layers upon layers of carefully hidden self-hatred. She had never understood how someone could hate themselves; she had never had any kind of inclination to feel such a thing, and her own experiences with any kind of self-negativity extended to nothing more than the occasional feeling of insecurity. But Loki did feel those things, tenfold and all the time, and it was something that had become more and more obvious about him the more they saw each other. He hid it well, but not well enough to keep it from her sharp eye.

“Perhaps we should leave the room — leave the temptation behind whilst we get to know each other,” Sigyn suggested, casting a glance to the bed.

“Fair enough.” He cleared his throat, and, with eyes downcast, murmured, “This … I’d call this my roundabout way to … Stay with me.” He still wasn’t looking at her, even though she stood a bare arm’s length away. “Sigyn, I want you to stay with me for the rest of the winter. It would … please me greatly.”

He was offering her a choice, a chance to say she didn’t want his company.

“I will stay with you,” she said. “I will stay with you for as long as you want.”

 _I promise_.

She stood in front of him and pressed a long, gentle kiss to his jaw. The heritage lines were rough against her lips, one his horns resting against her temple. He quivered beneath her touch like a trapped animal, and Sigyn realised with a jolt how hard it had been for him to get the words out, and the fear that they would be rejected.

 _“Why come closer to the_ beast _?”_

She came down to her feet, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. His scent was utterly overwhelming — solid and masculine and _Loki_. She inhaled it deeply, wanting to burn this moment into her memory forever.

“If we are stepping outside,” she murmured, “then I will need a _Krafa_ on my skin. To signify the end of the _hólmganga_. You must do it.”

“With a knife; I know. And scratches, so that it will heal within a night cycle.”

She stood in front of him, perfectly still and chin jutted up as Loki shaped a tiny blade of ice in his fingers. He was excruciatingly careful as he cut the _Krafa_ onto her left shoulder delicately. The point of the _Krafa_ was to show to all she had emerged from the _hólmganga_ as the undisputed champion. Sigyn thought she would never have had one on her skin.

“Now to show the others,” she said, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Is it still early enough they will be having breakfast?”

“I think so,” Loki murmured as the blade shattered. “Be careful.” He wouldn’t be coming with her. Part of the tradition called for her to announce this alone, without the strength of her bedmate physically beside her to cow others into accepting the decision. It was a final challenge to show to the realm that Loki’s choice was indeed a wise one.

“I was nearly disembowelled,” Sigyn said, trying to draw a laugh from him. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You could actually be disembowelled.”

“I promise I won’t be,” Sigyn teased. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I want to see my family as well, to tell them.”

“Of course.”

They walked down the stairs leading to the solar together, nothing to show of what happened between them. They weren’t touching, nor even looking at each other. Sigyn trailed behind Loki.

Helblindi-Prince and two other children sat on one of the couches, engaged in a game of _Hnefatafl_ that was carefully balanced on the prince’s lap. He barely looked up at her as he calculated his next move, but the other two did. Sigyn was startled to see one of them didn’t have heritage lines — what was a bastard doing in a prince’s company? The other child bore triple heritage lines, staring over the game as the other two played. They made an odd combination.

Sigyn and Loki parted at the doors, he heading off to the training grounds for his nightly exercise, and she to the main dining hall where several of the women competing in the _hólmgangar_ would be taking breakfast. As she passed servants in the corridors, whispers began to follow when they saw the _Krafa_.

“Her?” many of them said.

“Finally, the prince has claimed one of them.”

“But she is lowborn.”

Sigyn did her best to block out the more negative chatter.

The news of the _Krafa_ seemed to have arrived to the dining hall before Sigyn. There were several people scrambling inside before she made it, looking to see the woman who had finally broken down Loki’s walls.

“It’s Sigyn Bláinsdóttir.”

“The lowborn?”

“Didn’t she try to talk to us on the first night?”

“Can’t remember.”

“ _Does_ she have the _Krafa_?”

_I have that and so much more._

Sigyn stepped into the room, lifted her chin and pushed her chest out. She opened her mouth to say something, to confirm the _Krafa_ , but there was an indignant cry from the doorway and a collective intake of breath from the room at large. Sigyn barely had time to turn around to see what the stir was, and she almost cringed back at the look of fury on Haera Hloajardóttir’s face.

Haera stormed up to her and slammed her back onto the nearest table. Sigyn gritted her teeth against the pain and narrowed her eyes. Her back was aching fiercely, and she could have sworn she heard the flint crack beneath her.

“You … you undeserving _bitch_ ,” Haera snarled. Her claws dug into the skin just above the _Krafa_.

“Let me go,” Sigyn growled, sounding far braver than she felt, trapped as she was underneath Haera on her back. A flash of the _hólmganga_ between Glut and herself brightened behind her eyes, and she could feel her heart quicken, her breath shaking a little. She forced the thoughts — the _panic_ — away, digging her claws into Haera’s wrists. “You cannot touch me.”

“It was _you_ , wasn’t it?” Haera all but screamed in her face. “In the garden. It was _you_!”

“Aye,” Sigyn said through her teeth. “And why would you have ever thought Loki would have invited you down there? To love you? No. Never.”

“I have ambition, _real_ ambition,” Haera growled. “But you? Soft-headed and soft-hearted as you are?”

“You have nothing but selfish wants,” Sigyn exclaimed. “No wonder Loki never wanted you. You are arrogant, vain. You have the vapidity of a child who has had its toy taken away.”

“I have _strength_. I could kill you, everyone here, and I would be _fit_ to be queen-consort!”

Sigyn shoved Haera back as hard as she could, bringing her hands around and pressing her thumbs into the highborn’s throat, claws raking down the front of her neck. Haera stumbled away, hacking, her eyes sparking with fury and watering with pain. But Sigyn didn’t care.

Sigyn stood tall on the table and called, “I am Lady Sigyn Bláinsdóttir, and I have lain this night with Prince Loki Laufeyson. For too long many of you have thought me beneath you, but I will stand it no longer. Hate me if you must for stealing away your imagined glories, but I will not leave Loki’s side, as he will not leave mine. Challenge me to _hólmganga_ if you really must, but I _will_ win. I swear it.”

There was a stretched silence for a few seconds, but then one of the women at the back of the room called, “The prince has chosen, and it is a choice we must honour.” And then, to Sigyn’s astonishment, the woman who had spoken descended onto a knee. A bristle of surprise went around the room as others followed suit. Some of them dropped almost at once, whilst others took a fair few heartbeats to do so. Even Haera eventually shifted to a knee, showing her throat to Sigyn in surrender.

Sigyn could only stand there, struggling to keep her jaws clamped together. Yes, she had dreamt extensively about this moment, but never had it even crossed her mind that it could have become a reality. Even Lady Thorn Fyrnisdóttir, the strongest, bent the knee. It was surreal.

Sigyn said nothing, managing to keep her chin high as she left, weaving her way through the sea of bodies. Some of them followed her, eager to talk to her, to make friends.

“Sigyn-Lady,” one of the women said, “I’ve been wanting to introduce myself to you since your _hólmganga_ with Glut.”

“How did you do it, my lady?”

“Lady …”

“Please,” Sigyn said curtly, “leave me be.” She didn’t want their introductions now. Though she knew many of them wanted to befriend her now because of Loki, she still wanted friends in the courts. But not tonight. The masses had drained her, the nervousness of presenting herself. In a few nights she would seek them out, she promised herself. Haera was still an image in her mind.

Although Sigyn excused herself so many times she lost count, it was another half hour before she managed to free herself. As soon as she was a good distance away from the room, she broke into a run, a wild grin splitting her face as an uncontainable mixture of euphoria and hysterics bubbled inside of her. They had folded; they had acknowledged her. And she’d made an impression by overpowering Haera! It seemed laughable now how she had feared facing the woman once, when she had sat and watched with a horrified fascination at the wolf’s smile gracing the highborn’s lips after Gnissa had fallen beneath her.

She flew up the stairs, desperate to find her siblings and tell them everything.

“Skaerir!” she called, throwing the doors to their shared chambers open. “Alfarin!”

“Sigyn?”

Sigyn stopped in the doorway, her eyes widening. The room was clearly on the finishing side of being packed up, the belongings of her family packed neatly into bags and trunks. Alfarin and Skaerir stood in the centre of the room, items bundled in their arms.

“What’s happening?” Sigyn asked.

“We’re going home,” Skaerir said, putting her things down on one of the trunks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Skaerir laughed. “We couldn’t get to you. I suppose here’s where I say congratulations on finally getting laid.”

Sigyn’s face paled. “Skae—”

“The whole castle knows, little sister,” Alfarin said. “Good going.”

Sigyn shook her head vehemently. “It’s not that,” she protested. “I just … I just wanted to tell you myself.”

“Too bad; the servants beat you to it whilst you two were no-doubtedly going at it this eventide,” Skaerir teased. “‘Did you know that your sister slept with Loki-Prince last morning?’ We’ve heard that about … oh, twenty, thirty times each?”

“Probably more,” Alfarin grunted. There was a knock at the door, and Alfarin called for them to enter. Four servants came though, inclining their heads towards Sigyn in particular before taking the trunks and bags out. Soon, the room was empty.

Sigyn crossed her arms. “They have acknowledged the _Krafa_. Even the highborn have.”

Skaerir came to her, brushing her fingers over the _Krafa_. “As they should,” she said.

“I put Haera in her place.”

“That’s _excellent_ , Sigyn!” Alfarin said brightly.

Sigyn beamed. “I’ll come home after the winter’s over. I promise.”

“Good.” Skaerir hoisted her pack over her shoulder and marched out the door.

Alfarin paused to hug Sigyn. “Take care, little sister,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you for looking after me,” Sigyn replied, “even if your worries were uncalled for at times.”

“That’s part of being a big brother,” Alfarin said. “Farewell, Sig.” And then, with one last look over his shoulder, he followed Skaerir.

The room was suddenly very big, and Sigyn sighed heavily, passing her hand over her face. Despite what had happened over the past few hours, and that she had a partner for this _kyn_ she hoped to last for more than two or three nights, she felt lonely. She now had one person whom she could readily say she was close to in Útgarðar now, and that was Loki. At this point, it was a tenuous relationship she couldn’t yet rely on — in the end, being a bed companion wasn’t a secure position in the wider scheme of things. But if he too disposed of her after a few weeks, or even a few nights despite his apparent intentions, then she would have no one, and her position would be more uncertain than ever. Perhaps she would return to her sire’s lands before winter ended.

Sigyn turned on her heel and left for the solar, nervousness eating at her gut as she went to meet the queen-consort.

People _bowed_ before her now — granted, many of the displays were nothing but dips of the head in her direction, but it was far more than she had ever received before. It encouraged her to move all the faster, eager to escape the attention she was far from used to. Some stopped her, talked with her about inconsequential matters. To make themselves known to her. _Later_ , she promised herself again. _Later._ It grew quieter when she approached the royal wing, and her breathing eased as her steps slowed. The solar was just around the corner of the corridor she stood in, and she had to stop for a few seconds, steeling herself for the meeting before she turned the corner, crossing to the door.

Just as Sigyn raised her hand to knock on the door, she heard soft voices from within the solar. She froze as she caught her name.

“You wanted someone highborn.” That was Loki; his Æsir accented Jötunn proclaimed that much. “Sigyn doesn’t live up to your hopes of whom I would be sharing my bed with.”

The queen-consort said softly, “I am afraid for her. She will be torn to shreds.”

Loki said curtly, “No, she won’t.”

“She almost recently was. This eventide was an example, and the _hólmgangar_ —”

“What of the _hólmgangar_?”

“The _hólmgangar_ are to narrow your choices—”

“I know,” Loki said, “and Sigyn is my choice. If you do not agree with it, I couldn’t care for the less. If you were really so concerned about it, then the system would not have the flaws it does. If you really wanted the choice of my wife-to-be to be watertight, then I’d have been told I had no choice but to take to bed the strongest. But no. Sigyn fought in the _hólmgangar_ — I can claim her.”

Warmth burnt in Sigyn’s chest, and a wide smile broke across her face. Her biggest fear, that Loki would soon leave her for her lower class status, was more-or-less erased. For now. She took a breath and, fighting the smile, knocked upon the door.

It opened a few seconds later. Loki stood in front of her, his hard expression softening and his tense shoulders relaxing. “Lady Bláinsdóttir,” he said.

“Loki-Prince,” she responded.

He opened the door wider to allow her through, and she dropped into a low bow before the queen-consort. She was sprawled on one of the numerous couches, a cloak of direwolf fur around her shoulders, and her hair twisted into an elaborate knot on the side of her head.

“My queen-consort,” murmured Sigyn. “It is an honour.”

“It is an honour to meet the woman who has managed to capture my son’s heart so,” the queen-consort replied, motioning for her to straighten up. “It is hardly the easiest of things.”

Loki twitched behind her, and his fingertips ran over her back suddenly in an act of possession. Sigyn thought that the words were specifically directed at Loki rather than her, and her presence did not allow further argument from him.

If the queen-consort saw Sigyn’s shiver at the touch, she didn’t say anything, merely beckoned for her to come forward. She gestured to the bowl of cadameir leaves, inviting her to take some. Unlike when she had come to the solar to meet Loki after her _hólmganga_ with Glut, Sigyn didn’t take one.

“You may go, Loki,” the queen-consort said. “I wish to speak with Lady Bláinsdóttir in private.”

It was glaringly obvious Loki wasn’t happy with the decree. He gave a slightly mocking bow towards his dam, but still managed to make it look formal in a way Sigyn could never hope to replicate, before he retreated up the staircase to the sleeping quarters. The queen-consort said nothing until the distant door at the top closed.

“No doubt he is listening to our every word now,” the queen-consort started. “Unfortunately, the acoustics in this room means voices carry far more than I would like. But we are not here to discuss such things, I think. I trust he is being good to you, Lady Bláinsdóttir.”

Sigyn nodded, licking her lips. “He has been, Your Majesty. He treats me well.” She suppressed the bout of frisson that ran up her spine as the memories of last morning and the eventide just past flitted through her mind.

“Such a turnaround from when you two first met,” the queen-consort said with a sigh. “I thought he was going to break you in two upon your initial confrontation.”

“So did I, Your Majesty,” Sigyn said lowly, laughing a little.

“I must ask,” the queen-consort said, “Lady Bláinsdóttir, what do you feel for him? Friendship? Wariness? Love, perhaps?”

Sigyn swallowed. She hadn’t been ready for such a drastic change in topic, and into a very personal one at that, that it took a few seconds to reorient herself. “I … I cannot say…. I don’t know, Your Majesty,” she said finally. “I have never felt indifferent. As an individual, I think him likeable after his … animosity. But now, I have strong feelings for him, but if it is love or not, I do not know. It has not been long enough.”

“I am glad,” the queen-consort said, leaning back in her seat. Sigyn looked up, confusion pinching at her brow.

The queen-consort saw her expression. “I admit that I am not entirely approving of Loki’s choice to take you to his bed, but I am starting to see what he sees in you. You are not a fool whose main concern is for title. You’re thinking, and that pleases me. He needs someone who thinks; thoughtless actions will not help him with where he is right now, and possibly even harm him.

“My son is … he is lost,” the queen-consort said so quietly Sigyn barely heard her; she wondered idly, if Loki was indeed listening at the top of the stairs, if he had heard. “I fear for him. I fear that you will be the only one able to reach him.”

Sigyn’s heart was loud in her ears. “I … I have seen some side of it, Your Majesty. Not only yesternight, but on other nights as well when he sought my company. I too worry for him.”

“Other nights? How long does that go back for, Sigyn?”

Sigyn twisted her hands in her lap. “Months,” she admitted. “We started seeing each other for brief snatches of time maybe a week or two after the Æsir diplomats came.”

“The rumours that spread about the garden: was it you who Loki saw?”

Sigyn nodded. “Yes, my queen-consort.”

“I see. Then I would like you to promise me something,” the queen-consort said. “Promise me that whilst you are with him as either a mate or a bed companion or even a friend, that you will do everything you can to help him. He rejects us as his family, and as such rejects our attempts to find common ground. For this, I can hardly blame him. There have been … _disagreements_ between us many times over the past months. My only wish is that you are able to provide strength. I know I ask much of you, but he is my son. I carried him in my body, knew everything he did during that time, and where we are now …” She shook her head. “I fear for his long-term sanity, and even at times, his life.”

Understanding thudded in Sigyn’s gut like a heavy avalanche. Loki’s words from last morning were ringing through her head, and the despair and pain in his eyes after their second kiss as he demanded from her an ulterior motive that didn’t exist, and the intensity of his actions in their lovemaking. A desire to prove. To conquer something warring in his mind. The dried tears on his cheeks….

“I understand, Your Majesty,” Sigyn said. “I promise.”

“I sincerely hope you keep it.” She waved her hand towards the stairwell. “Go to him. Your _kyn_ makes you restless.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Sigyn said, flushing a little as she stood and bowed herself out.

Loki, it turned out, had been waiting. He was leaning nonchalantly against the wall next to his room, sniping something at his younger brother. He stopped midsentence when Sigyn came up the stairs.

“Oh.” Helblindi-Prince turned around, eyes widening when he took her in.

“Prince,” Sigyn said, dipping her head.

“Don’t do that,” Loki said evenly. “He doesn’t need that kind of thing going to his head.”

“You’re annoying,” Helblindi-Prince threw back at him. “Hello, Lady Bláinsdóttir.”

“If you are agreeable, my prince,” Sigyn said, “I’ll be stealing your brother now.”

A grin came to Helblindi-Prince’s face, and he hurriedly jumped back to avoid Loki’s hand aiming to clip the back of his head. “Just don’t be as loud as Bý and Grýla,” Helblindi-Prince called back over his shoulder. “I haven’t sleep for _nights_.”

When Helblindi-Prince had gone, Sigyn crossed to Loki.

“That was quick,” Loki said, kissing her hurriedly as he fumbled with the door handle to his chambers. “What did she want?”

“Later,” Sigyn said, shutting the door with a snap and tugging at Loki’s _kjilt_ in an effort both to stall and to ease her _kyn_. “I want you. Now.” She eased Loki’s _kjilt_ from his hips, leading him to the great bed and pushing him onto it.

“I want you, too,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want you.”

* * *

#

* * *

As the nights, and then the weeks, started to go by, Sigyn and Loki grew far more comfortable in each other’s presence both in private and in public. It was now common knowledge around not just the castle, but around the provinces of the development. Sigyn was just glad that it was now out in the open; she had hated sneaking around behind everyone’s backs from the start.

Their time outside of the bedroom was decidedly unromantic. They behaved more so like close friends, with their engagement in sex something more like a side effect of their relationship. Their various activities in their spare time included reading, training, playing various games, discussing court politics and gossip, and riding. She too would help Loki with his studies in private corners, correcting his now rare slip-ups with his Jötunn. She listened to him recount the bickerings and problems of the court after long nights of attendance, and while she watched him talking, her words to the queen-consort floated through her mind. The ones about whether she loved him. It was common for the longer-lived peoples of Yggdrasil to spend years developing a bond of love, sometimes even decades. It took the jötnar several decades to form the bonds between mates, but Sigyn sometimes imagined one of intense platonic feelings forming between her and Loki, no matter how much she wanted it to be different. She didn’t just want Loki’s platonic friendship.

Sigyn also started to stay in Loki’s chamber for the days when before she would have made her way back to her own. Her things had made a slow trip up: first her clothes and bathing supplies, then her jewellery and the few miscellaneous things she had brought with her until there was little point in keeping a mostly empty trunk in her rooms. That was eventually brought up too.

Six weeks after their first coupling, their _kynar_ finished. Loki’s ended five nights before hers did, and she was desperately afraid he would turn her away after his body no longer demanded a second’s presence. But she was wrong. He helped her through the last nights, kissing her and loving her intimately for those few moments. And for those few moments, Sigyn could not help but hate the barriers the separated them, that prevented her from being able to love him romantically. She suspected such a revelation would have shattered Loki; indeed, she could still see during those times how much Loki struggled with himself. She hated that, too, of the doubt that coiled in his mind. She wished she could do more than she currently was, but it was easier said than done. She did all she could do at this stage. She told him over and over that he was beautiful, that she wanted him — all of him, including the parts he thought no one else could bear — and that she worshipped him.

But despite the attentions Loki lavished upon her, it was a relief when Sigyn’s _kyn_ finished. It grew frustrating after a while, a desire that she wished gone.

“Can you teach me something?” Sigyn asked when they woke the eventide after the end of her _kyn_. “Can you teach me to fight?”

“You can already fight,” Loki said.

“But I’m far from the best I can be,” she said. “After all, I do have a reputation to win back, no thanks to the highborn.”

“If you’re looking to learn Æsir combat techniques,” Loki said, “I won’t teach you. You’ve been scorned enough already because of me.”

“I do not want to learn physical techniques of how best to hit an opponent,” Sigyn said, “but how you battle. You have grace when you fight, a way of reading your opponent. I wish to learn how to do that.”

“Reading battles is all about practice.”

“I know. But you must have some kind of technique. A defensive strategy that I … lack.” She gestured to the scars on her abdomen.

Loki looked at them too, and after a few seconds of silence, he said, “Don’t tell Helblindi; he’d never let me hear the end of this. I wouldn’t let him learn.”

Sigyn smiled, heart skipping a beat. “Thank you. _Thank you_.”

It was a few minutes before they were ready to leave, planning to postpone a wash until after the training and so they could take advantage of the heated pools underneath the castle. They were descending the steps to the solar when they heard voices within:

“… can’t leave now!”

“Býleistr, I’m not asking you: I’m telling you.”

“Sire—”

Loki put a hand on her chest when they were just beyond the bend of the stairs leading to the solar, putting a finger to his lips to tell her to keep her silence.

“Loki,” she whispered, “we can’t. It’s not right.”

“Sire,” Býleistr-Prince said again, his voice holding a forced calm; Sigyn fell quiet at once, “Dam, I cannot go. My place is here.”

“Then who else am I to send?” That was Laufey-King, and there was a hint of impatience in his tone. Sigyn didn’t want to alert the king to their presence; in truth, he scared her a little. “They will accept your authority. I cannot send Helblindi, and Oblivion forbid I send Loki; they would be sorely tempted to kill him on sight.”

“Who would?” Loki had suddenly stepped into the solar, and Sigyn swallowed a noise of protest. She peeked around the corner.

Loki was standing at the mouth of the staircase, shoulders relaxed, voice casual. “There are many people who want to kill me, so I’m rather at a loss as to who you’re talking about.”

“I thought you were some kind of prodigy,” Býleistr-Prince growled. “It should not be too hard to figure out who and what we’re talking about, _Brother_.”

“A place that wishes to kill me,” Loki mused, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why would you wish to send your beloved son to Þrymheimr, Laufey-King? From my understanding, isn’t Þrymheimr in a cold war with you?”

Sigyn, again, didn’t understand what Loki meant. Cold war? Another Æsir-ian term?

“The situation is becoming increasingly unstable,” Laufey-King said finally. “You’d know this if you’d attend your lessons.”

“You’d know I couldn’t have attended when I was experiencing the most intense heat in my life,” Loki snapped. “Forgive me.”

Sigyn thought about intruding, about calming Loki down, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she discarded it. It would make him look weak if she stepped in directly.

“My king,” Sigyn said, bowing as low as she could. Laufey-King looked around at her, and she felt like her knees were in danger of collapsing. “I do not understand what exactly is going on between Þrymheimr and Útgarðar; if it is acceptable, may I be enlightened?” Her question sounded all the more silly and childish as she had gone on, and she felt her face burning.

“These are political matters, Lady Bláinsdóttir,” Laufey-King said dismissively. “The dealings are not for any to hear.”

Sigyn whispered, “I understand, my king,” whilst trying to fight down her embarrassment. She had gotten what she had wanted: the defusing of the tension thick in the air.

“I will give you a week before you have to go, Býleistr,” Laufey-King said, eyes back on Býleistr-Prince. “There’ll be no more argument, and I expect you to act as a prince. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Býleistr-Prince ground out, still clearly unhappy. “May Grýla come?”

“If she must,” Laufey-King said. His eyes flicked back to Loki, and he jerked his head towards the solar doors. “I do think you two have places you want to go. This is between Býleistr and me.”

“Yes,” Loki said curtly. He marched wordlessly past his family, and after Sigyn had given quick, yet respectful, bows to each of them, she hurried to join Loki.

“So, Býleistr-Prince is leaving,” Sigyn said, hushed.

“Good,” Loki said curtly over his shoulder. “Get him out of my hair for a few weeks.”

“But Þrymheimr,” Sigyn continued, “the situation must be desperate if your sire is sending your brother.”

Loki snorted. “We’ll discuss it later; I have no patience for any of them now.”

Sigyn bit at her lip, the conversation abruptly cut off. “I understand,” she said. She didn’t though, she really didn’t. But she didn’t want to dwell on Loki’s problems now. She knew dwelling on them would upset him if he discovered it. But still, she couldn’t help but wonder. What was happening within Þrymheimr?


	28. Chapter Twenty-Four - Little for Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

Yule that year was one where every detail of the day was burned into Thor’s memory. It was also the year that, for the first time, he didn’t do anything extravagant. Vanaheimr didn’t celebrate the Midwinter Festival as Asgard did — with loud and noisy abandon — but held more reverence for it. Thor had always thought the mood to be a rather sombre one, especially when he’d think of the happenings back in Asgard, but the atmosphere certainly suited him better now.

“Cousin!”

Thor looked up. His cousins were at the door, and he stood with a smile. “Baldr! Höthr! What brings you here?”

“What do you think, idiot?” Baldr asked, punching Thor lightly in the arm. “We won’t be letting you spend the entirety of Midwinter Festival holed up in here. We get that you’re going through a hard time what with … with Loki, but you need to get some of that life back into you.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, Baldr.”

Baldr slapped Thor heartily on the chest. “Ack, you know what we mean. You haven’t been yourself at all recently. There’re some elves here this year, and they’ve brought their rum. Their _rum_! Norns, you’re one lucky bastard to be here when there’s elf rum.”

“Elf rum?” Thor asked, perking up at once. “Save some for me, then.”

“Save some?” Höthr asked, frowning. “Cousin, why will you not come?”

“I promised my mother a meeting. It’ll take little more than ten minutes.”

Baldr nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. “We’ll wait.”

Thor waved a hand. “You do not need to.”

“We’ll do it,” Baldr protested. “We’re here for you.”

“You’ll be bored.”

“Can’t be bored with Höthr around.”

Thor shook his head, smiling slightly as he went into the study.

His rooms in the Vanaheimr palace were familiar enough; he had stayed there on multiple occasions over the centuries. The window looking out onto the royal gardens was the only thing that had really changed since his last visit — the barren fingers of the vines woven through the trellis bordering it were longer, arranged differently so they wouldn’t hang in an unruly fashion when they were thick with leaves and flowers in the spring. The study itself was a quiet place. Books sealed behind glass-fronted cabinets dominated one wall, built around a fine oaken desk stacked with parchment, and pens loaded with ink. A cashmere rug covered the floor, thick enough that his toes sunk deeply into it.

A brazier stood in the middle of the room, and it sprung into life when Thor crossed the threshold. He went to it, standing and waiting patiently for Frigga to establish the connection — she was already waiting, for the fire had come.

She shimmered into view a few seconds later. Thor smiled at her when she came more into focus, and he was tempted to reach for her, to cup her face in his hand. “Mother,” he said. “Happy Midwinter Festival.”

“Happy Midwinter Festival,” she echoed. “How are you?”

“I am well,” Thor said. “I have Baldr and Höthr in the other room demanding they take me out drinking.”

Frigga snorted. “All I will say is remember what happened last time when they took you drinking.”

“I was not the one having to be dragged back home,” Thor pointed out. “It’s hardly my fault the pair of them are lightweights.”

“Sigrítha nearly gutted me,” Frigga reminded him. “Please, look after them.”

“I will, don’t you worry.” He tilted his head to the side, crossing his arms. “Why did you want to speak? I doubt it was just to wish me a happy Midwinter.”

Frigga sighed heavily, shifting her weight to her other leg and clasping her hands in front of her. “Thor … your father and I are still … still processing the events of the night that you … that the Allfather awoke.”

Thor slipped into the defensive at once. His brow tightened into a scowl, and he said quickly, “I’m not sorry for what I said — not to Father at least. My words were justified — he left Loki on Jötunheimr without a thought! He isn’t even trying to do anything about it! I was, I—”

“Hush.”

Thor fell silent at once, and his shoulders bowed under her stare. “Forgive me, Mother,” he said. “I have not had room in my heart to forgive Father's words.”

“They were harsh, that I know, but your words were equally as hurtful.”

Thor wished the conversation would just be done with already. He wanted to escape his mother’s scolding, to ignore the actions and the words exchanged between the three of them that night in favour of getting himself spectacularly drunk on elf rum. “Your attitude has been hurtful,” Thor said. “If you’re looking for an apology, then I’m not going to give it.”

“I am disappointed to hear you say that.” Her words cut at him deeply. “I am not finished with this yet, as this is best discussed in person, and this is not the reason why I have contacted you.

“Your father is wandering,” Frigga said. “I am fulfilling the role of Queen Regent in his absence.”

Thor felt a sudden twist of guilt in his stomach that he was unable to — unwilling to — cover the regency. An apology was just on the tip of his tongue, but, taking a leaf from Loki’s book, hid it behind a snort. “He still does that? He is hardly the most dutiful king.”

“As were you,” Frigga said. “You concentrated all your efforts on Jötunheimr and neglected the rest of Yggdrasil. Rumours are still flying about Loki’s fate—”

“About his survival?”

“No one knows for sure what has happened. I’ve heard stories tell of how Loki was lost in the battle and is currently wandering the plains of Jötunheimr with no way back home.”

“Well, they’re not wrong there, are they?”

“Please, I am trying to talk.” She sighed again. “The situation is bad, and there are theories flying around about what we are hiding; the people have discerned that much.”

Thor looked away, crossing his arms and muttering, “That’s my fault. I wasn’t thinking….”

“Thor, you did everything you could for the circumstances surrounding the situation,” Frigga said. “You did what any other would have done in a different situation and called for a diplomatic solution. I’m proud of you for that, but unfortunately, these circumstances are far from normal. Social politics are as much at risk as legal ones. Everything is political, Thor. Feelings must be put aside and exchanged for the cold iron masks royalty must wear. I wish for nothing more than to bring both of my sons home, but I cannot. If I do—”

“You’ve told me before,” Thor said glumly. “As Father slept.”

Frigga nodded absently. A voice called out in the background, and she looked over her shoulder. “I must go,” she said. “I am needed.”

Thor nodded. “Farewell, Mother. I hope to speak to you soon.”

“I’m sorry this has been so short — it is one of the many downsides to the power of the throne. Give my well wishes to your uncle and aunt.”

Frigga broke the connection with a gesture of her hand, and the illusion dissolved into nothing. The fire in the brazier went out, and Thor’s shoulders slumped. He felt even more terrible now, digging his heels in to his mother like that.

“Oi, Thor. You done yet?”

“Coming.”

Thor rolled his shoulders and trudged out of the study.

Baldr had made himself at home, seated in the best armchair and reading one of the books. Höthr’s lips were pursed, and he gave Thor a grimace. Thor blinked in confusion. And then he saw what Baldr was reading.

Baldr flicked through the book Thor had brought with him — the one about Jötunheimr — frowning when he saw the bookmarks, the notes scribbled into the margins, and the underlinings. “Were you seriously considering a peace between us and Jötunheimr?” he asked.

“Baldr,” Thor said in warning. “Return it.” He held his hand out.

Baldr hesitated for a second before handing the book back. Thor snatched it from him, slamming it forcefully onto a table and putting himself between it and Baldr. “There’s rum to be drunk, is there not?” Thor asked forcibly.

“Yes,” Höthr said quickly. He put his hand on Baldr’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “We should be quick.”

Baldr grumbled and stood, casting Thor a look before leading the way out. Thor kept himself between Baldr and the book until he was out of the room.

* * *

#

* * *

The feast had finished some time ago, and the hall instead was filled with men drinking each other under the tables. Thor, Baldr, and Höthr had sequestered themselves, and a once-nearly full barrel of elf rum, at a centre table. Only the dregs of the rum remained at the bottom. Thor’s head felt pleasantly fuzzy, and he had to fight down a burp.

“Is that all?” Thor asked to the surrounding crowd. “Is that _all there is_? More!”

A cheer went up from the Vanir, and it wasn’t long before another barrel of rum was slammed onto the table in front of him. Baldr roared with approval, and Höthr grinned widely, lifting his tankard and calling for someone to fill it.

This, Thor could do. The Vanir might have stuck to a more dignified approach to a festival, but alcohol reduced people of all races to the same level.

And with the rumours going around about Jötunheimr, and the now common knowledge that Thor had sent a diplomatic party there, a confrontation was inevitable.

“Thor Odinson.”

Thor cracked open an eye, looking up at the group of Vanir standing over his table. They were drunk, two of them nearly tipping over. Thor lowered his tankard, fixing an eye on them.

“Come now, gents,” Baldr said lowly, putting his feet up on the table and gesturing with his mug, “away with you.”

“This doesn’t concern you, my prince,” one of them rasped. “This is about the jötunn lover.”

The immediate area fell deathly silent. Thor stood sharply, intent on cowering the Vanir with his bulk. There was a part of him that remembered when Loki had stood over them like this in his jötunn skin, and that part of Thor remembered best the sliver of fear that had infected him.

“I’m sorry,” the vanr muttered at once. “I meant this is about his Royal Highness, Prince Thor Odinson, who loves jötunns.”

“I have no love for those _monsters_ ,” Thor said curtly. _Loki isn’t a monster; he is Æsir._ “Now move along.”

“Is your brother alive?” the vanr asked, slurred. “You lyin’ to us, ás?” He shoved Thor hard in the chest, and Thor stumbled back a step. His braced his leg against the table, and barely noticed Baldr and Höthr jumping to their own feet.

“Stand down,” Höthr snapped, “if you know what’s good for you.”

“Touch me again,” Thor growled to the vanr, “and you’ll regret it.”

“You’re avoidin’ the subject,” another vanr said. “Your brother alive?”

“Do you want to hear me say it?” Thor bellowed, shoving the vanr hard in the chest. “You wish to torment me? My brother is dead! Are you happy?!”

“If that’s true, then you’re a disgrace to him,” the first vanr shouted. “Treating with the monsters that murdered him!”

Thor threw a punch. It was sloppy, better suited to a drunken brawl, but Thor supposed that this was what it was. His fist landed squarely on the vanr’s jaw, and he flew back onto the tabletop several feet away, bellowing his surprise and pain. Baldr and Höthr, who weren’t quite so drunk yet as to leave Thor alone to his battles, leapt from their seats at once, wrestling Thor’s arms behind him as he bellowed, “My brother is _dead_ because of those beasts, damn you!”

He wanted Mjölnir in hand, instinctively calling for her. But then when he remembered, somewhat stupidly, that Mjölnir was still sitting in his father’s study, Thor resorted back to baser techniques. He howled, throwing off first Höthr and then Baldr before he launched himself at the vanr on his back, barely noticing as he struck his face over and over again. He could hear people goading on the fight from a long way away, someone else yelling at him to stop, but the loudest of voices were the ones behind him, cursing and snarling as they tried to pull the jötunn lover off their friend.

Thor turned his fists on them, arm flying out to find anything to grab before he smashed it into the side of a head. His vision was narrowed, rage simmering in his blood. He wanted to scream at them that he wanted Loki back, and perhaps his tongue was loose enough from the rum to let slip even a portion of the truth. He could feel the berserker in him rising, something he hadn’t felt since the first trip to Jötunheimr. The environment was riling him up, the shouts and screams of those around him, itching for the fight, was doing his head in. Thor could taste blood on his teeth — whether it was his own on the vanr’s, he had little idea, and he cared even less.

“Stop! _Stop!_ ”

Thor growled as someone caught the arm that he’d drawn back for a punch, wrapping their body around it in an effort to hold him still. He swung his other arm at them, livid, and knocked them away. He surged towards the vanr, spittle flying from between his lips as he snarled wordlessly at everyone around him. He was aware there was a circle clearing about him, and he lunged for the barrel of elf rum, throwing it at the crowd with a howl.

“ _Enough._ ”

And then he was caught.

Thor twisted, struggling and bellowing his displeasure as insubstantial hands held him back, forcing him to his knees and his head down.

“Enough.”

Thor clawed at the flagstones beneath him, trying as best he could to stand and spitting out half-formed curses and a litany of “Dead, dead, _dead_ ” mangled by his bloodlust.

“Take him away.”

* * *

#

* * *

The echoes of the bloodlust were still singing in his veins when he awoke later in the healing halls. Whilst the halls of Asgard held the crisp scent of healing stones and the crackle of magic clinging to the corners of the rooms, the Vanaheimr halls smelt of earth and herbs.

He groaned, head splitting apart and trying to push himself upright, but he couldn’t move his arms. He glanced down and dully noted he was restrained by a _Nauðr-Úr_ bindrune painted on the insides of his wrists with gold ink. It was as if the now immoveable force of Mjölnir was lying upon his limbs, and, when he tried to move his legs, he suspected similar marks were on his ankles.

But his awakening had stirred one of the healers on duty into action. “Prince Thor,” she said, bustling to his side and smiling a bit too kindly at him, “I’m pleased to see you’re awake. How much do you remember, Your Highness?”

 _Rage_ , Thor thought. _Loki._ He remembered too the blurred shapes reality seemed to have become, his vision tunnelled upon the vanr who he had beaten bloody. He felt a deep pang of guilt. “The vanr,” he rasped, “is he …?”

“Minor broken bones, and some of his teeth were knocked out,” the healer said, pursing her lips slightly. “He’ll be alright.”

“Where is he?”

“Sleeping, Your Highness. If you wish to talk to him, then I’m afraid it’ll have to wait.”

But if the healer was thinking that he wanted to apologise, it couldn’t be further from the truth. Perhaps he wanted to apologise on some level, but he was more focused on the fact that the vanr had called him a liar, a failed king, _jötunn lover_. He had insulted Thor, insulted Loki, and that, to Thor’s mind, made his anger righteous enough to not warrant an apology.

“Healer Gethila, you may leave.”

Thor looked around to see Queen Sigrítha striding up the ward, Baldr and Höthr trailing behind her almost sheepishly. Behind them, Thor’s uncle Hœnir brought up the rear with little Thrúdr.

The healer dropped into a low curtsey and said, “Your Majesty, I have not yet finished—”

“I will inspect him, and I will take the necessary steps if my nephew should prove that the berserker rage still holds him tight.” Sigrítha drew up beside and the bed and, looking at Thor, asked in a clipped voice, “Does it hold you still?”

Thor shook his head. “Forgive me of these actions I have committed under your roof,” he whispered in the Vanir High-Tongue as a sign of his utmost sincerity.

Sigrítha studied him for a moment before she bent down and struck a line through the bindrunes on his wrists. Thor sat up with a groan, mumbling his thanks as he reached for his ankles to rub the paint away from there too. The world swum before him, and not all of the spin was to do with the dregs of the battle-rage; he could feel the beginnings of a hangover creeping up.

Thor struggled out of bed and dropped into a bow before the queen, eyes downcast and showing her the back of his neck.

“Rise, Son of Odin,” Sigrítha said finally, flicking her finger up in a sign for him to rise. Thor did so, swaying slightly on his feet. He then noticed he’d been stripped of his formal armour down to his smallclothes. He spotted his things a second later folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

“My sons have already told me of what happened,” Sigrítha continued, casting Baldr and Höthr a sharp look from the corner of her eye, “but I want to hear the story from you. Indeed, if the Lady Sif had not come to fetch me at once, I am afraid to think of what might have happened.”

“Sif was there?” Thor asked sluggishly, frowning as he tried to recall her presence. “Where—?”

“You gave her quite the bruise on her forehead, nephew,” Hœnir chuckled, clapping Thor heartily on the shoulder. “She’ll have a shiner for the next couple of days, that’s for sure.”

Thor felt horrified with himself. “Where is she?! Is she hurt any more?”

“No, and she’s in your rooms,” Thrúdr whispered, eyes downcast. “She … she thought it would be wise for her not to be here when you woke, in case you were still … still berserker.”

Thor’s frown deepened. Sif had been around him a hundred times when he had descending into the primal rush of his battle-rage, and had stayed by him until he had come back from it to. He looked to Sigrítha for an answer, but her expression was guarded, giving nothing away.

“Thor,” she said instead, “there is something I must make clear to you.”

“What?” he asked, leaning forward the slightest amount.

“Come.” She turned on her heel with an aside of, “Baldr, Höthr, I think it high time to retire.”

Neither of them were happy at the dismissal, and they bowed and left, grumbling under their breaths.

“You too, Thrúdr.”

“Yes, Mother.” Thrúdr turned and went away.

Sigrítha fixed her violet eyes on Hœnir. “Husband mine, come with us.”

Thor shrugged on his undershirt and pulled his boots on before following his aunt and uncle, his mind occupied with the thought of Sif. Was she ill? She’d been acting somewhat distant over the past few days, but Thor had since chalked that up to the fact he’d been acting strange as well, his thoughts consumed with Loki. Yule time held many memories for him, and his loathing of the situation increased threefold. He was being wholly unreasonable, he thought, and she was getting tired of talking about Loki all the time. He was unstable, and she needed a break, especially if he’d hurt her.

The whisper of the pine trees lining the gardens outside stirred him for his reverie. Guilt was consuming him now, and he barely noticed where Sigrítha was leading him. He did notice, however, that she and Hœnir were arguing quietly between themselves. His uncle was an expressive man, and was used to gesticulating his words. Sigrítha was his opposite — calm, composed, her hands folded in front of her, and her eyes half-lidded.

Thor hissed when the moonlight hit his eyes. He threw an arm up, eyes watering, as he looked to where he was being taken.

The stone room reminded him of a well. Its vertical sides rose up into the air, and the moonlight fell into the shaft, it in itself nearly fifty metres wide, and bathed the black stone a white-grey at this time of night. In the centre of the well was a stone circle set in the middle of a stretch of mirror-smooth water. Stepping-stones led to the island.

“Where are we?” Thor asked, voice echoing around the well.

“My retreat,” Sigrítha said. “You are one of the few to ever look upon it, Thor Odinson. Come.”

“Why are we here?” he asked next, a hint of wariness in his voice. “Queen Aunt, if you wish to speak to me about my actions—”

“I do,” Sigrítha said, reaching the island and settling herself in the centre, “but it is not of the nature you think it to be, of that I am relatively certain.”

“Then what is the nature of it?”

“I am not here to reprimand you for your actions. Fights happen, and it is your mother who should be the one scolding you if she still thinks her son cannot drink properly. No, I am here to help you, Thor.

“I am here to address the reason why the fight broke out: Loki.”

“I don’t want you talking to me about Loki,” Thor snapped. “It is my pain to handle. I appreciate your desire to help me, but it is unwanted.”

Sigrítha didn’t move her eyes from his face, only gestured for him to sit. After a few tense and silent seconds, Thor complied, grumbling audibly as he sat opposite her, back stiff.

“Now,” Sigrítha said, waving her hand over the floor — a line of runestones appeared in the wake of her palm, “I believe the last time you saw your brother was when you went to Jötunheimr against your father’s wishes. Tell me, what did he say to you?”

“To leave him,” Thor said, settling his hands on his knees and gripping them tightly. “He said he did not wish to return to Asgard because it would place him in danger.”

“And he was right, of course,” Sigrítha said, now pulling a thin knife from the air. Thor saw Hœnir grimace when Sigrítha drew the blade over the edge of her hand. She displayed no sign of pain when the blood welled, and she held her hand over the runestones.

“ _Politically_ correct,” Thor said heavily, switching his focus back to Sigrítha, “but he yearns to return to Asgard.”

“And you know this how?”

“Because he is my brother, and I know him as well as I know myself.”

Sigrítha’s eyes darkened, and she said, hushed, “Then I’m afraid you’re mistaken in your belief, Odinson. I’m afraid you do not know his mind at all.

“Loki is jötunn, and the jötnar are a people who are tied closely together — it is in their biological nature — and he is not exempt from this.” Gold light shimmered from her fingers — a mist that wrapped itself around the runestones. Then it rose into the air, forming into a disc above their heads. Sigrítha murmured under her breath something Thor couldn’t understand, and then, slowly, the disc began to shimmer with images. It turned dark to match the environment, and the flicker of figures within the dark began to become clearer. Thor’s heart thudded loudly when he recognised Loki’s profile, his Æsir profile. But as soon as the picture fixed, Loki began to change, his skin darkening, horns curling from his hair. Although the picture was silent, Thor could see Loki’s mouth opening in a sigh of relief at the change.

_No._

Sigrítha was watching Thor passively as he stared.

Loki fighting, felling his opponent with ease in a great ring of stone, and baring his teeth in savage victory. And then the scene changed to a bedroom, and Loki, along with a smaller jötunn were within. The smaller one said something, something so quick Thor couldn’t read his lips, but Loki snorted in response, shoving the other away with a slight grin of amusement. Another shift, this time changing to Loki sitting with another horned jötunn, their backs to a wall and talking civilly. There was no mistaking the affectionate glint in the other’s eye.

And then it was to Loki and a female. Not the one who had fought with him when Thor had gone to the realm, but a different one, one who had softer lines, whose shoulders were rounded by shyness, and whose legs were threaded with Loki’s through a balustrade as they talked. Then, in a different moment, Loki had backed her against a wall, and Thor’s breath caught when he leant into her lips for a kiss, nipping at her flesh as he worked his way down her throat and winding his hand into her hair. Her expression changed into one of content at his touch as she brought her lips to his once more.

 _It’s not real; this is a_ lie _._

Loki, standing with Laufey and what must have been his family, covered with painted runes, eyes closed, and lips moving in silent song in time with the others.

“Enough.”

Sigrítha took his wish to heart. The gold disc faded from existence, shining dust from the spell falling to the ground in a circle. “I have been watching Loki over the past few months,” she said, “and what I showed you is what I have seen with my Second Sight. And the Second Sight does not lie, Thor.

“He has moved on,” Sigrítha said softly, standing up and moving towards him. “I’m sorry, nephew mine.”

“No,” Thor spluttered. “No….” He couldn’t process what he saw before him. Mostly he was sure this was nothing but a trick — and Hel, he’d grown up with a trickster for a brother — and was waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for, he was convinced, the coming ‘but’. His throat was working furiously, fingers gripping the sides of the stone basin so hard that flakes scattered to the floor.

“Thor….” Sigrítha’s voice was gentle, her fingers on his arm nothing but a fleeting weight.

Thor was biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. He was shaking his head frantically, unable to hold back the rush of betrayal spilling throughout him. “He wouldn’t do this,” Thor said. “I know him too well for him to do this.”

“The Second Sight does not lie.”

“Bullshit,” Thor snarled, lurching to his feet and backing away. Hœnir caught him before he went back into the water. “It’s _bullshit_.” He pushed Sigrítha away and shouted, “ _Stop lying to me!_ ”

“She’s not lying,” Hœnir said. “I’m sorry, boy.”

“You’re not,” Thor growled. “You never liked him, Uncle, you never—”

“We are only trying to help—” Sigrítha started, laying her hand on Thor’s arm.

Thor slapped her away. “You’re trying to drive a wedge between us! I _know_ Loki! I know he would _never_ do that! Become one of those _beasts_!”

“But from what I have seen, it seems as if he has indeed become a ‘beast’,” Sigrítha said, curt. “And do not presume to lay your hand upon me again, Odinson. I will have you gone from here if you cannot behave properly.”

“Then I am afraid I must leave,” Thor bit out. “I must see to Sif.” Then he stormed from the well, leaving his aunt and uncle behind.

When the door boomed shut, Hœnir said to Sigrítha, “That was not kind, showing him portions of the truth.”

“He needed to see it,” Sigrítha replied. “He is Æsir, one of us, and Loki is one of the enemy. To have them fraternising will only bring harm to everyone. Princes they may be, but a brotherhood between them will not end millennia of hatred. And I will protect my family, no matter the costs.”


	29. Chapter Twenty-Five - Þrymheimr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

Centuries ago, when Býleistr had been given the first pick of a new litter of káshtar pups as his horns began to stub, he had picked Ranea for her incredible speed. She took the strain of the journey to Þrymheimr easier than the others, and the pace Býleistr pushed them meant it took four nights instead of six. But by the time the first houses came into sight, he, Grýla, their guards, and their káshtar, were exhausted.

Before them stood the spires of Þrymheimr, and there was no doubt that the city was a beautiful one. Taking inspiration from the natural beauty of the Skógarmaðrfit, the sweeping waves and glittering towers of ice and stone had been arranged into a structured order, the streets lain out with exceptional care unlike the sprawling mess of Útgarðar.  The castle stood in the centre of the city, held high above the common buildings by breathtaking buttresses; icicles hung metres long on the undersides. The only things that stood higher than the castle were the Moon Towers: _Pottbrotunglið_ and _Björtungl_. Directly behind the castle, unable to be seen now, was a deep wedge in the land that led down to the sea several hundred feet below. High walls surrounded the city, made of deep blue ice and stone.

A conjugation of guards had come to meet them outside the walls. They were heavily armoured and held spears tipped with obsidian heads. Direwolves prowled at the feet of their own káshtar mounts.

“You’d think they were greeting an enemy of war,” Grýla muttered to Býleistr as she pulled up next to him.

Býleistr knew she said it in good humour, but he didn’t smile. He couldn’t. “We’re opposed enough as it is that this could turn into war if things go wrong.”

“Have some belief in yourself,” Grýla said, smiling at him. “Stop being so negative for once. I miss the old you. You used to laugh so easily before your brother returned.”

He did smile at her now, but he felt like it was a forced one.

“Halt!” one of the Þrymheimr men said, hefting his spear slightly.

Býleistr pulled Ranea back, and she came to a stop, claws screeching on the ice.

The Þrymheimr loyal lifted his chin at Býleistr, looking him up and down. In the back of his mind, Býleistr tightened the glamour covering his scars, and was sure to fix both of his eyes on the man. “We did not expect you so early, Your Highness,” he said.

“Yet here we are,” said Býleistr, leaning forward on the saddle’s horn. “I trust our accommodation is ready?”

“Certainly, Your Highness.”

“Good. I want an audience with Thrymr-Jarl before the dawn meal.”

“You shall have it, Your Highness.”

The groups turned as the city’s gates groaned open. Býleistr nudged Ranea forward with his heels and a sharp click of his tongue. The káshta fell behind the Þrymheimr group’s leader. The streets were neat, the ice and stone unscarred like Útgarðar’s was now. Býleistr had fuzzy memories of what Jötunheimr had been like before the Æsir had destroyed much of it, but he remembered Útgarðar well; he remembered how its beauty had once surpassed Þrymheimr-Greater’s tenfold.

As word of their arrival spread, people began to come out of their houses, following them up the sloping streets to the castle. They walked over the roofs, an increasingly swelling crowd dogging their heels. The direwolves spread around them, snapping their teeth at any who came too close. Býleistr was also quick to notice there were several in the crowd who glared at him, showing their teeth before they turned away.

“Thrymr’s poison is spreading,” he murmured to Grýla. “Look at them.”

“Good thing we arrived two nights early, then,” she said. “Staunch the bleeding before it gets too much.”

The castle’s outer walls dominated the central market place. Made from dark stone and covered with ice, two rows of iron spikes had been set into the façades at even intervals. The watchtowers overlooked the gate into the inner courtyard. The doors were open, the portcullis raised. Within the centre of the barbican was another party, comprised of Þrymheimr’s local highborn.

Býleistr stopped a little way back from the barbican, holding the reins loosely in a hand. Grýla pulled to a stop beside him, as did the others except from his herald Hringvolnir. Hringvolnir instead paraded in front of them, calling, “Hail to His Royal Highness Býleistr, Son of Laufey-Conqueror, Hornbearer, Strongest of Laufey-King’s children, and Crown Prince of Jötunheimr.”

“We are honoured to receive His Highness in Þrymheimr,” one of the highborn said, stepping into a bow. “We welcome you to Þrymheimr, Býleistr-Hornbearer. May you and your companions find shelter in our halls; they shall be yours for your stay and for your next.”

Formalities only, Býleistr thought. There was an acidic flare to the woman’s tone, subtle enough to be missed by many, but not for him. It was difficult to get things by him from tone of voice.

“Please, come this way.”

The wolves were the last ones through the gate. The portcullis closed behind them, and the outer gates after. Hringvolnir was the first of their party through the barbican, his káshta’s claws scraping against the bridge of ice beneath them. Separating the barbican from the inner castle was a deep chasm, plunging a good half-kilometre down and into the sea beneath. The bridge could be collapsed in a heartbeat if need be, the keeper merely releasing the supporting columns of ice they had shaped the night they had taken the position of the job. Without the half-dozen support beams, the bridge would fall. Býleistr had visited Þrymheimr only five times before, and he had always hated crossing this bridge. He was immensely glad when Ranea was on solid ground again, as well as Grýla.

More of the castle populace were waiting in the inner courtyard, servants of high enough rank to be welcoming him and the Útgarðar escort. Býleistr scanned the crowd with his eyes, frown growing ever more pronounced. “Where is Thrymr-Jarl?” he growled.

“His lordship sends his apologies for his absence,” the Þrymheimr highborn said. “Thrymr-Jarl is currently conducting over matters of the province, as your early arrival coincided with his midnight audiences. He shall receive you for the dawn meal.”

“I sent runners ahead, the watch hailed our presence early enough to alert him of our approach,” Býleistr said. “I request an audience.”

“I shall relay a message to the _jarl_ ,” the highborn said, bowing slightly.

It was an insult. Býleistr supposed he could have marched in upon Thrymr in the middle of audience, it was his right as the crown prince, but such a thing would be a breach of the ancient laws of the guest right. This was still Thrymr’s home, his domain, and he was still master of the house. It would be bad taste, and Býleistr was better than Thrymr.

Stable hands came for the káshtar. Býleistr dismounted, hiding his wince of discomfort as his stiff muscles suddenly moved. He stood tall, Grýla at his shoulder, as the steward came to meet him. “Please, Your Highness, if you would follow me, I shall show you to your chambers.”

The man led them away as the luggage was being unloaded. The castle had obviously just been cleaned. Blue light illuminated the corridors, free from flecks of ice and stone, the air free of the heady smells of the recently passed _kyn_ that most places smelt strongly of for several weeks after.

They met no one on their way to their chambers, passing instead huge swathes of wall several paces long dedicated to beautiful works of art. Útgarðar had once had works like that, things that had unfortunately been destroyed in the war and had never been replaced. Þrymheimr’s castle hadn’t been touched much in the war, simply because it hadn’t been a target of much concern to Asgard. It therefore still exhibited much of Jötunheimr’s past glory still. Býleistr hated that, that Þrymheimr of all places was the one to still display their history best.

Býleistr and Grýla had been given the best guest quarters. Like his chambers back in Útgarðar, this was a multi-room complex, although smaller. Drapes of fethrik wing membrane tanned so thinly as to become almost transparent were pulled back around a bed laid with incredibly thick and soft gurthöllr pelts. Swathes of pelts lay over the floors too, low couches and tables covering the rest of the space. Dozens of kalók antlers arranged in an outspreading display housed tiny crystals of light on their points, casting a soft, welcoming glow over the room.

Býleistr had always felt uncomfortable here despite the atmosphere. Helblindi had said the last time they were here, he was being paranoid, but the simple truth was that he hated places he didn’t know well. Útgarðar’s castle was one of the few buildings he was ever comfortable in. He knew every crack and crevice like the back of his hand, knew which stones didn’t lay even in the floor, knew where the moonlight tracked in the corridors and rooms over the course of the night, and the routes most often tread by the day guards. But not here.

As soon as the luggage had been brought up, Býleistr sank onto the bed, releasing his glamour and passing his hands over his face. “I’m becoming more and more convinced that Sire wishes to punish me for my behaviour over the past half year,” he muttered.

The bed dipped under Grýla’s weight as she too fell upon it, her hand sneaking to his hair and running her fingers through the strands. “You know why he can’t leave Útgarðar now,” she said. “He trusts you, Bý, trusts you enough to come to Þrymheimr in his stead of all things. Don’t see this as punishment of some kind. Besides, isn’t it good to get Loki out of your hair for a few weeks?”

Býleistr looked at her from between his fingers, raising an indignant eyebrow at the same time. “I’d rather be in Útgarðar with him than here.”

“You’ve made your position clear,” Grýla said, “but unfortunately you’re here. The sooner you stop sulking and start making plans with Ogladnir as to how we can convince Thrymr to retract his increasingly hostile stance, the sooner we can leave.”

“Talking down a man who hates my sire and his crown all the more because of my brother’s return,” Býleistr mused. “How wonderful.”

“I don’t know what you’re going to be like if you are the one to inherit your sire’s title,” Grýla said. “I should leave now if this is what you’re going to be like.”

“Don’t do that,” Býleistr chuckled, bringing her palm to his lips and kissing it. “I need you to talk me into doing my duties as a prince, and then, with luck, as a king.”

“The only reason I stay,” Grýla said, yawning. “Are you as tired as I am?”

Býleistr absently hummed an affirmative.

Grýla stretched and asked absently, “There’s a guard outside?”

“Aye — Kaldgrani and Hastigi.”

Grýla made a noise of relief, her eyes sliding shut as her fingers curled around one of Býleistr’s horns, encouraging him to come further up the bed. He crawled up next to her, and she fitted herself on the curve of his back, carding her fingers lazily through his hair.

As she drifted to sleep, Býleistr traced the heritage lines on the back of her hands absently, unable to bring himself to even enter a light doze.

* * *

#

* * *

Býleistr sent another message to Thrymr an hour after they had arrived. It was another long half-hour until a runner came back to inform them that Thrymr would be awaiting them within the next thirty minutes.

“Finally,” Býleistr muttered, throwing the message tablet onto one of the couches. He went to the chest of his finery, pulling his better things out and putting the bands on one at a time. Four bands of gold for each horn, armbands for his upper arms, a star-iron throat-guard, heavy vambraces with ceremonial handguards, and matching greaves. As he was threading his fingers through the handguards’ loops, Grýla came up behind him to rearrange the throat-guard. He looked at her from the corner of his good eye as she fetched his armour, holding it to his skin as he pulled it to his body with his ice.

“Thank you,” he said, kissing her forehead when he stood. “How do I look?”

“Suitably intimidating,” she replied.

“Good. Here, your turn.”

He fastened the complicated clasp of her fine silver chain necklace as she slipped her own vambraces on, finishing the picture with whole-finger rings tipped with elongated claws. They lined their eyes with _bláraskr_ and each chewed on a _hvítr_ stick to whiten their teeth. Only then were they ready to go.

Eight guards were outside to escort them, all of them from Útgarðar. They too were wearing their best, and they surrounded him and Grýla as soon as they stepped outside.

It was a short walk from Býleistr and Grýla’s chambers to the throne room, and the small number of people they came across bowed before them, some even going to their knees.

As the corridors drew closer and closer to the throne room, the architecture grew more and more complex. The soaring stretches of wall were decorated with minutely carved detail, so much so it made Býleistr’s eyes simply water every time he looked for too long at it. The ribbed, arched ceiling was a collection of gothic architecture dripping with long fingers of ice. It was beautiful to look at, especially when the light caught the icicles just right and separated it into fractals cast upon the stone. Býleistr remembered one particular occasion some months after the war ended when he would come here just to look at the ceiling, trying to get used to the partial blindness in his left eye and the frustration that came with the loss of correct depth perception. And with the knowledge that his infant brother would never see it.

Býleistr pushed the familiar surge of guilt away when the doors to the throne room opened.

“Wait here,” he said to Kaldgrani, the head of his guard, before nodding towards Grýla and entering.

It was a long walk between the doors and the dais at the other end of the room. Upon it sat a high-backed throne. It was so big, bigger even than Laufey’s. This throne was designed to frame the seated person, to cast an air of intimidating power, so much so it dwarfed anyone sitting within it. Guards were spaced evenly along the walls, bowing their heads as Býleistr and Grýla passed.

Direwolves, some of the biggest Býleistr had ever seen, lounged at the foot of it, gnawing on bones and other scraps of meat. They looked up as soon as Býleistr and Grýla entered, and they surged to their feet, barking and howling madly at the two of them. They were held back by the collars and golden leashes straining at their throats.

The man seated in the throne held up a hand and let out a high whistle that the wolves obeyed. They growled, and then retreated to the throne’s foot at once.

“Hail to Býleistr-Prince, Son of Laufey,” the man said.

“Hail Thrymr Avaldason, _Jarl_ of Þrymheimr,” Býleistr replied.

Thrymr’s overall state of health didn’t match those of many of his subjects’ outside the castle. He was big for one, big enough to be called overweight. His face was square, his triple heritage lines highlighting the boxiness of his jawline all the more. His eyes were small, head clean-shaven, his neck covered in claw-marks. He was dressed in very fine clothes and armour as well, with a cloak of prime valravn feathers that would have cost a small fortune around his shoulders and across his lap. Rings glittered on his fingers.

“It is an honour to receive you in my home, Hornbearer,” Thrymr said. “My roof is your roof, my food is your food, as is all else that presides here.”

“Thank you for your generosity,” Býleistr started. “Thrymr-Jarl, I’ll be blunt now that formalities are out of the way — you know why my sire, your king to whom you swore your loyalty, has sent me, his firstborn. Your words and actions regarding his recent decisions have been spreading far across the planet; word has it even the jötnar of the storm have heard.”

“I am an influential man, and one of politics. There are many who agree with them.”

“As there are many who agree with my sire’s; far more in fact, and he certainly has more who are loyal to him than are loyal to you.”

“As becomes of the king’s position.”

“Aye. But my sire has reason to believe that your own loyalty, loyalty sworn in blood and on bended knee, is wavering as of late. Because of my brother.”

“I’m afraid that would be correct.”

Býleistr hummed in his throat. “Leave us,” he said to the room at large.

The guards along the walls bowed and left, until only Býleistr, Grýla, and Thrymr remained.

Býleistr looked to Thrymr, consciously halting the sway in his stance he so often fell into and clasped his hands behind his back. “Your recent grievances have lain with my brother and my parents’ reactions to his survival,” he said. “I would hear your concerns, Thrymr-Jarl.”

“You are intelligent, Your Highness,” Thrymr said. “I assume you have already guessed many of my reasons for my concern.”

“I have my thoughts,” Býleistr agreed, “but I would hear them from your mouth.”

Thrymr settled back into his seat, scraping his claws across the arms. “As you command, Your Highness,” he finally said. “I am concerned with where his true loyalties lie. I have heard … troubling rumours about his frame of mind.”

“What have they been?”

“The most simple of these rumours have been that he pines for Asgard,” Thrymr said, “and that he met with a troop of Asgardians in the late summer at Þengraðr.”

“My sire investigated the claims, and the result of such was that it was a fabricated story,” Býleistr replied. “One of your own, Hrimgerd of the House Morn, was the lead perpetrator.”

“Morn and her blood have always been shadows at the edges of the social circles,” Thrymr said. “They are a House built on inherited wealth. They might have once offered economic value, but not now. If you were worried that this man, a radical, acted in my name, then I am afraid to disappoint you, Your Highness.”

 _There’s a lie somewhere_ , Býleistr thought. He didn’t have all the information, which was very frustrating.

“But as the king investigated, so did I,” Thrymr said. “My people died at your brother’s hand, Your Highness. I wanted to know what possessed him to do such a thing. This was found at Þengraðr.”

A servant came forth, a small table in her hands. She placed it before Býleistr, bowed, and left as a second servant entered. He put something on the table before he too left, and Býleistr leant forward to see what it was.

It was a bracelet. It wouldn’t have fit an adult Asgardian, but would have comfortably sat around a jötunn wrist. And the bracelet, although blackened and twisted, was unmistakeably Æsir in design.

“If you were to look inside, you would find evidence of scratch marks made by claws,” Thrymr said. “Marks made over only the runes scored on the inside, as if the wearer knew where they were.”

“It is a relic of the war,” Býleistr said with a dismissive shrug. But he couldn’t help but think, _Loki, you fool. I thought you were smarter than that._

“It is from something that is much more recent than the war,” Thrymr said. “You can see why such a discovery as this is troubling news to me.”

“If it is indeed what you are suggesting it is,” Býleistr started, “then I’m afraid it does little to help you. It could even be an artefact planted by you in the hopes of shifting the blame of what happened onto my brother. Your evidence may not be as concluding as you wish.”

Thrymr’s eyes had narrowed minutely, and Býleistr stared back. He knew he hadn’t wriggled his way free of the predicament, his sire and Loki were ones more suited to words, but he’d bought a little more time for this to be sorted out. Especially since he had put Thrymr onto the backfoot for a heartbeat.

“You alluded to other thoughts about my brother,” Býleistr prompted next. “Perhaps I can ease your fears on those too.”

“I have heard that he misses the Asgardians,” Thrymr said, a trace of a growl in his tone. “Enlighten me as to that.”

“He has said several times he wishes to raze Asgard to the ground,” Býleistr said, consciously holding himself back of what else jumped to his mind, the _buts_. “He was held captive for most of his life, forced to give up his shifting — crippling him immensely. They kept him in the sun, berated him for not fitting to their ideals. He has no love of Asgard in his heart, Thrymr-Jarl. If this repeated sentiment of his is not enough to ease your worries, then I’m afraid not much else will other than a direct face-to-face audience with him.”

“Perhaps.”

“An audience you won’t receive.” Býleistr’s tone turned cold at once. “You know as well as I do why my sire sent me here: you have fallen out of his favour, and he no longer trusts the lords and ladies of Þrymheimr as he did when this province was under Thjazi-Lord’s rule. This revelation of my brother’s survival and your very clear position against him is doing you little favours to regain my sire’s trust. Know your place, Thrymr Avaldason; know who wears the horns of royalty.”

Even though Býleistr stood below Thrymr’s dais, he by far cast the longest shadow in the room. He had never tired of the stirrings of fear in others’ eyes when they flickered from his face to his horns; it had been one of his favourite parts of them growing in.

“To regain my sire’s trust, you will put all of your effort into the discussions over the next weeks with Laufey-King’s council. So say I on my sire’s behalf, am I understood?”

“There is no doubt of your words, Býleistr-Prince.”

“Good.”

Býleistr turned away and, not casting a glance over his shoulder, strode to the door, Grýla keeping pace with him the entire way.

“Býleistr-Prince.”

Býleistr’s hand was already on the door, and he paused where he was, listening for what Thrymr had next to say.

“The dawn meal will be served somewhat earlier tonight. The journey between Útgarðar-Greater and Þrymheimr-Greater is exhausting.”

“My people thank you for your generosity,” Býleistr said, before he wrenched open the door and slammed it forcibly behind him when Grýla had stepped through.

He was in a foul mood for the entire walk back to the rooms, and as soon as he and Grýla were alone, Býleistr bellowed his frustration to the wall, gripping at his hair and breathing sharply through his nose.

“The _nerve_ of the man,” he snarled. “He insulted us — insulted _me_ — the entire time. He still sees me as the child I was when he last laid eyes upon me.” He had barely started growing his horns the last time he had seen Thrymr.

“The man is a pain, yes,” Grýla said, “but he’s too powerful, and too well liked by a number of his subjects, that getting rid of him would be a bad move. Perhaps instead your sire could convince Thjazi-General to challenge Thrymr to _hólmganga_ instead.”

“I’m afraid that would be a losing fight for Thjazi,” Býleistr muttered, “and it’s my sire’s worry as well. Thjazi wold lose everything if he were to be beaten by Thrymr.”

“You just saw Thrymr! You cannot disagree that he’s long past his fighting nights, especially with all that weight.”

“Extra weight means little in the face of fitness or the right skills,” Býleistr said.

“Remember what I said before?” Grýla asked, poking Býleistr in the chest. “Stop — being — so — negative.”

“It has become my default mood unfortunately,” he grunted.

“Then start turning it around; I don’t want to have to put up with it over the next few years.” She paused for a second. “You should trust in others more, Býleistr. Trust that Thjazi-General could beat his brother in _hólmganga_. Trust that Loki will find himself a home here and that his words will become the truth instead of just a wanted one. And this mood of yours _isn’t helping_.” But then she smiled softly, reaching up to cup his face and deliver a gentle kiss. She ran her claws over his horns as she said, “Faith, Bý. Have some faith.”

* * *

#

* * *

They didn’t do much for the rest of the night, contenting themselves with playing games of _Hnefatalf_ in which the loser of each round would forsake a piece of clothing. Býleistr was losing badly, and he was grateful for how many fiddly bits of clothing and jewellery he wore when there came a knock on the door with an announcement from one of the castle staff that the dawn meal would be served soon.

“Thrymr-Jarl and his mate would be honoured to host you, Býleistr-Prince,” the man said, head bowed and showing the back of his neck.

“Tell Thrymr and his mate that we accept their invitation,” Býleistr said.

He shut the door and found Grýla laying on her stomach before the game board, swinging one of Býleistr’s horn bands around her finger as she said, “This is going to be a pain to put back on, won’t it?”

Býleistr swore under his breath. “That’s why you’re going to help me.”

“It’ll be a pleasure, my prince.”

It took longer than the first time for Býleistr to get dressed, and much longer for Grýla considering how she kept twisting away from him to readjust something for him — “You _kjilt_ ’s crooked, Býleistr”, “One of your horn bands are backwards”, “When did your hair get so _messy_?”

Eventually they finished, and because of it, they were running slightly late.

“Who cares?” Grýla asked, her arm threaded through his as they strolled through the corridors. “You’re the prince, so you may come and go as you please.”

“The prince and his future queen-consort,” Býleistr murmured, nuzzling her neck.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Bý,” she said absently.

It was getting noisier the closer they drew to the main hall. When they got there, the doors were thrown wide.

“Hail Býleistr-Prince!” a herald called as Býleistr and Grýla stepped through the door. “Hail Grýla Stumadóttir!”

“Hail!” the feast-goers echoed back as they rose from their seats.

There were about a hundred of them in total, spread down tables groaning with food enough to feed a quarter of Þrymheimr-Greater’s population easily. Fish was the most abundant dish, arranged on gleaming platters of polished obsidian being passed around by servants. Entertainers occupied the middle floor, stopping in their dancing to bow before Býleistr and Grýla as they passed. Scantly clad men and women whispered in the ears of feasters, touching them with light fingers and some of them kissing others deeply. Thrymr had always been one to indulge in pleasures of the flesh.

Thrymr himself was seated alone at the top table, his throne given up for Býleistr. The direwolves slept around his feet, panting and drooling and chasing things in their dreams.

“So much for ‘Thrymr and his mate’,” Grýla muttered to him. “Where is she?”

“I have no idea,” Býleistr replied.

“Highness, my lady,” Thrymr greeted, bowing his head and gesturing to two of the five remaining seats. _Five?_ “I hope the food is to your liking.”

“It certainly looks inviting,” Býleistr said, crossing behind the table and settling himself in the throne; it was, he had to admit, far more comfortable than he would have initially thought.

“I’ve had the delicacies of Þrymheimr prepared for tonight,” Thrymr said. He pointed at one of the dishes. “Yerknar heart stuffed with glesam weed and þroush meat — a particular favourite of mine if I may say. This heart belonged to a bull-female, and I find theirs to be especially flavourful.”

Býleistr flicked his wrist. “You know what is best. I’ll—”

“Býleistr.”

Býleistr frowned, wondering who dared to address him so casually. The voice had come from a near antechamber. He looked around and spotted the speaker at once. The shock was enough to make him forget every manner and bit of political training he’d ever received.

_No…. Oblivion, no…._

Blood pounded in his ears, and he had to clamp the throne’s arms to stop his hands from trembling.

“Býleistr?” Grýla asked from a very long way away. “Sváss? What is it?”

The feast-goers hadn’t seemed to notice anything particularly out of the ordinary.

A woman stood in the doorway to the antechamber, relaxed and at ease. She was a powerful individual, muscled, her head clean-shaven, as tall as he was, and her arms and ears weighed down with metal. Next to her was a small girl whose hand she held tightly. The girl had triple-lined markings, which greatly contrasted against the woman’s lineless skin. From the woman’s brow, broken horns jutted.

She lifted her chin, and her eyes glittered. “Hello, _nephew_.”


	30. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 01-12-2015**

**1943 A.D.**

The headaches had been plaguing Loki for the last few weeks. It had not escaped Frigga’s notice how frequently her son had been visiting the healing halls, teeth gritted and eyes watering as he bit back obvious cries of pain.

“It’s this he’s after,” Eir said, holding up a small vial for the queen’s inspection.

“This is very strong,” Frigga muttered after a moment, turning the glass over in her fingers and looking at the clear liquid inside. “What does he say about the headaches?”

“He says … he says they are like twisting knives at his temples.”

“Can you offer any sort of explanation as to what it is? Because after all these weeks….”

Eir beckoned Frigga to follow her into her private office. Once inside, the door was closed tightly and the healer cast a spell for silence around the cracks. “My queen,” she said, “I think it may be his … _other_ nature.”

“What do you mean?”

“The jötunns’ royal family … their horns, my queen,” Eir said in explanation. “They usually emerge at around a thousand years of age.”

“But Loki still has two decades of life before he’s that old,” Frigga said seriously.

“Perhaps they have emerged early,” Eir mused. “He has been consistently rubbing at where they would grow and, from what I understand, the growth can be painful.”

“Would you be able to tell by looking at him as he is?”

“I’m afraid not. The shift to his Æsir body … there is the possibility that, if it is the horns emerging, it is hindering them, and therefore making it much more painful on his behalf — especially if he starts to fight against the seal your royal husband has placed over his shapeshifting. My suggestion is, for the minimal amount of pain, to shift him back.”

“We cannot do such a thing,” Frigga said quickly. “He is not ready to know; he is not mature enough.”

“We cannot stop the horns from coming,” Eir said patiently, “but we can help ease their pain. The most efficient way to do so is to allow the shift.” She sighed. “I know this is a hard decision to make, but it would be for the best.”

Frigga was silent. There had been numerous problems over the years regarding Loki’s blood. When he had been a baby, his nursemaid had been incredibly distressed when his teeth had grown in pointed and sharp like the jötunns’. Next when she had seen him, his budding teeth were flat and Æsir. His fingernails too grew much faster and thicker than Æsir nails did, and his constant need to file them was a moan she had long since learnt to ignore. Fifteen years beforehand, he had started the jötunns’ annual heat cycle, and Frigga could not help but feel some sort of sliver of concern about how many people he took to his bed every winter.

But horns …

Dear Norns.

“I will have to talk to my husband about this,” Frigga said.

Eir bent her head and opened the door for Frigga. She swept out and walked swiftly to Odin’s council chambers.

“… not our war. It is a war restricted to a small part of Midgardr, and it is not affecting any realm other than their own. Let them fight amongst themselves.”

“There have been rumours that the Midgardians have discovered the location of the Tesseract—”

Frigga rapped on the door, paused for a heartbeat, and then entered. Around the huge gilded table in the centre of the room stood the eight council members, Odin at its head. Discussion about Midgardr died down in an instant as Frigga cleared her throat.

“Allfather — husband — I must talk to you urgently.”

Her tone must have been enough for Odin to dismiss the others with a sharp rap of Gungnir on the floor. The men bowed and exited.

“Frigga,” Odin said, sighing as she crossed to him.

“It’s about Loki,” she said, her voice low. “About his blood.”

The words caught Odin’s attention immediately, and Frigga linked her arm in his. She led the way back to the healing rooms.

“He has suffered from constant headaches over the past few weeks, and Eir believes it is because his horns may be emerging,” she informed her husband in a voice barely above a whisper. “She believes it is best to shift Loki to his natural form and allow them to grow. It would bring him less pain.”

Odin didn’t say a word until they got to the healing halls.

Eir hurried forward and gave a low curtsy as soon as the guards stationed outside opened the door. “My Lord Allfather,” she said.

“Tell me of what has afflicted my son,” Odin commanded.

Eir nodded. “I have been researching quietly over the past few days, and I assume my queen has told you of the current situation.”

“She has,” Odin said, “and she told me of your proposed solution.”

“Yes. It would be for only a few days, and I could encourage the growth with a few spells to hurry it along. If we do this, it would be very tiring to him, so much so he might sleep through the whole process.”

“Will it ease his pain?”

“Yes; considerably.”

“Very well. Frigga, would you know where he is now?”

“His chambers, I suspect,” she replied. “He has been spending a lot of time there recently.”

“Eir, bring a sleeping draught; the strongest you have.”

“Your Majesty?” the healer breathed.

“If you deem it the best course of action, I will shift him,” Odin continued. “I do not want him to find out the truth; I _want_ him to be unable to awaken.”

“Of course.” Eir gave another curtsy and bustled off.

“He is not ready to know,” Odin muttered.

Frigga knew what he meant. If Loki found out now, it would be disastrous.

When she knocked on Loki’s door and called for him softly through the oak, he answered with a stiff formality for her to come in.

“Wait here,” she said to Odin. He looked as if he was going to protest, but Frigga threw him a stern look. She pushed the doors open as Loki moved himself to his elbows, eyes tightly closed and a hand going to his head. He winced, and Frigga could see it was a visible effort on his behalf to bite back the whimper of pain that rose to his lips. He looked terrible. His clothes and hair were rumpled, his skin paler than ever, and dark shadows were present under his eyes; they looked like bruises.

“Oh, my son,” Frigga breathed, crossing to his side quickly and kneeling next to the bed, “you’ve had me worried these past days.”

“I am fine, Mother,” Loki told her stiffly, but his actions, and his appearance, said otherwise. He dug the heel of his hand into his temple. “I do not need you to fuss over me.”

“I merely seek to help you,” she said, taking his hand away and gripping it tightly. The other went to his head, caressing his hair. He groaned, and Frigga took her hand away quickly. “I have had Eir bring you a sleeping draught; I hope it will help ease the pain.”

“Mother,” Loki grumbled as Eir came in.

“Your Highness, your mother is right,” she said gently. “You’re exhausted.” She unstoppered the bottle and poured half of the liquid into a chalice she had brought with her. Then, she put in a few drops of the clear potion to alleviate the headache. “Please, drink this.”

After a few seconds of indecision, Loki grimaced and held his hand out for the chalice. Eir gave it to him, and he finished it with a couple of quick gulps. Frigga smiled at him as his eyelids began to droop. Within a matter of heartbeats, he was fast asleep, breaths long and deep. Frigga stroked his forehead as Eir hurried back to the door to let her husband in.

“Why would you not let me see my son?” Odin demanded as he entered.

“Because Loki is proud,” was Frigga’s reply. “He would have been more difficult to deal with if he knew his father could see him in his time of weakness.”

Odin said nothing. He instead looked over Loki and said in a low voice, “He will grow.” He cast his eye to the fire and made a smoothing motion with his hand. A second later, it had fizzled out of existence. One more motion of his hand, and Loki’s leathers were changed to clothes that were rougher and much bigger.

Odin gently took Frigga’s hand away from Loki’s face and replaced it with his own. A cantrip passed his lips, and when nothing happened for a few heartbeats, Frigga wondered if something was wrong. Then she tried not to flinch as Loki suddenly shifted. Odin had been right — he was getting taller, his skin darkening, and patterns rose on his flesh as he changed. The sheets and furs crackled with frost, and the air became chilled at once. Frigga’s breath came out as a cloud in front of her face.

“It’s a defence mechanism,” Odin said in explanation. “Asgard’s air is too hot and arid for him to comfortably withstand as he is.”

Frigga was still looking at Loki, to her boy who had been born Laufeyson. She had never seen his jötunn form before, but she had always thought of it whenever she had looked at him for the first decades of his life, of the beast beneath the surface of his pale skin and bright green eyes. At the sides of his head, stretching back in oblong-like shapes, were two bases of dark bone. They looked painful, the blunt ends dotted with blue blood from his wild scratching. The bone looked soft and dull as well; the silver-black keratin she was sure that had been upon Laufey’s horns was absent. The horns would sit above his ears and cover large areas over the sides of his head so to properly hold the weight.

“Oh, my son,” Frigga said again, reaching her hand forth to cup his face.

“Do not,” Odin warned her, catching her wrist. “His body temperature at the moment is low enough to burn. You mustn’t touch him.”

Eir muttered a quick spell under her breath and her fingers glowed gold — a spell of protection against the frost. She opened one of Loki’s eyes, and Frigga swallowed when she saw the bloody red colour they had become, devoid of irises and whites.

“Yes, he is in a very deep sleep,” Eir said. “It is unlikely that he will awaken for some hours yet. I will need to stay and monitor him, but I will need more of the draught delivered to me regularly if he is to remain in such a deep sleep as this; always it has had less effect on the jötunns.”

“How long will it take?” Odin asked.

“My work can be completed within a week, Your Majesty. When that time has passed, you may come back and shift him,” Eir said. She put her fingers to the side of Loki’s head, and then began to pull away great clumps of his hair, revealing the greater oblong bases for the horns; each was easily the size of a fist.

Frigga watched with a horrified fascination as the hair spiraled to the floor. “I will stay with you too,” she suddenly said.

“Your Majesty, you do not have to,” Eir said quickly, but Frigga paid her no heed. She spelled her own hands for protection against the cold and cupped Loki’s face gently.

“I will stay,” Frigga said again. “What must be done?”

“Spellwork,” Eir said. “Spells to encourage the repairing of bone. I use it to mend broken limbs, but I am confident I can modify it to envelop bone growth. He will need a lot of food as well. I shall give it to him whilst he sleeps. Nothing too solid — broths and soups would be best for this situation, high in protein. They must be chilled as well, or the temperature could potentially harm him.”

Odin nodded in understanding. “Will you be alright?” he asked Frigga.

She smiled. “Keep Thor away. Send him on a quest, tell him his brother is not well and he needs peace and quiet to recover, tell him anything to keep him from here.”

“Of course.”

Odin left quickly, and Frigga heard him order a troop of guards to stand outside the doors, not to let anyone in who didn’t have the express permission of the Allfather, even if it was Thor. He also ordered them not to look inside.

It was then Eir began to sing under her breath in one of the ancient tongues, and Frigga felt the magic under her fingers. It tingled as it worked, and Frigga could feel it rising to his temples through the skin. Loki whimpered slightly, but Frigga merely ran her thumbs down his cheeks, fingers brushing over the raised ridges on his jawline. “Hush, now. It’ll be alright, my son, my brave son.”

 **_My_ ** _boy._

When Loki was allowed to wake eight days later, he was none the wiser to what had happened, and blissfully unaware of the cruel, perfectly curved horns he now wore — horns that were far finer than Laufey’s had ever been thanks to Eir’s careful spellwork.

“My head feels heavier,” he said later that day.

“I’m sure the feeling will pass,” Frigga told him as moths floated between them in the dusk. “Your condition was bad, and Eir has informed me this is but a side-effect.”

“What could have made me unconscious for a whole week?” he asked in disbelief. He scratched absent-mindedly at his temple.

“I do not know, but you are healed of it now, and that is what we should be thankful for.”


	31. Chapter Twenty-Six - Hroar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 02-12-2015**

“You’re alive.”

“Yes. There’s been a lot of that recently, hasn’t there? First your traitor brother, and now your traitor aunt. The universe has a funny sense of humour, doesn’t it? Dead relatives are popping up everywhere.”

The conversation had been moved to an adjoining antechamber, and Býleistr’s heart was still pounding in his chest. Grýla had gone back to the rooms at his behest; he didn’t want her here for this … duty. This was the first time Býleistr was meeting the she-jötunn, but he’d heard enough about her to know that not only was she dangerous, that she was an oathbreaker, a _murderer_ , but that she had a foot planted firmly in the realm of self-righteous madness.

“Hroar, is it not?” Býleistr snarled, eyes snapping to hers.

The she-jötunn looked considerate. “You know my name, nephew?”

“Only through tales of your grievances,” Býleistr said. “You’re no relative of mine. That right was revoked long ago. I have no aunt, like I have no cousins.” His gaze switched to the girl.

She glared at him, starting forward, but the she-jötunn’s grip on her hand tightened.

“You’re forgetting your lessons,” Hroar murmured, a hint of a growl in her voice.

The girl drew in a breath before saying, “I must keep a level head, Dam.”

“Good.” Her grip loosened. “Now go upstairs, my love. I’ll be there soon.”

The girl scampered out of a side door.

Býleistr followed her, and when the door slammed shut, he asked heatedly, “How are you alive? You died. They found your bones in the Skógarmaðrfit.”

“Isn’t it funny how one skull looks like another when it’s been left to the ice for a few years?” Hroar said languidly. “A little bit of enchantment and a favour repaid, and then legerdemain becomes easy when no one’s keeping watch.” She smiled. “Death took the price off my head, and so now I’m free. It’s fun finding loopholes, isn’t it?”

Býleistr twitched. Although she had been banished long before he had been born, he could clearly see how she had once been related. Once he looked past her unsettling, alien lack of heritage lines, he saw the resemblances between not only her and his sire, but also her and himself. He suddenly hated how much he looked like his sire, and she him. She reminded him also of Loki — the same trickiness hung around them both, and that twisted, self-assured smile was just as unsettling; Loki even tilted his head in the same sinister way she now did.

“I need take only two steps to tear your throat out,” Býleistr threatened. “No one would object. You are subject to law.”

“True,” Hroar said, “but not the laws of murderright. I am pregnant — you cannot touch me.”

“Liar,” Býleistr said at once. Ice coated his arm to the elbow, and he took a step forward, raising his blade. “You lie, _Enginnssdóttir_.”

No one’s daughter. She had no family by ancient law.

Hroar sighed. “I do not lie, _Laufeyson_. You need only ask Thrymr-Jarl. After all, he helped.”

They turned to the _jarl_ , and, to his credit, Býleistr thought, he didn’t outright take a side. He nodded and said, “Hroar speaks the truth. There are witnesses enough to confirm.”

Býleistr stared. Then his face twisted, heart pounding in anger as he looked towards Hroar. “You—”

“That really will be ‘cousins’ soon, won’t it?” Hroar asked, scratching the pad of her thumb with her teeth. “It’s a shame, is it not? Thrymr-Jarl has claimed me — a poor, politically weightless and unsworn thing, as his mate. I am legally his property, and unless my brother wishes to start a civil war, he, or anyone that has sworn their loyalties to him, cannot touch me with the intent to bring harm.”

“I can still challenge you in _hólmganga_.”

“Would you?” Hroar laughed. “I may be a disgrace to my brother, but no doubt you have heard of the _hólmganga_ between him and me …” She didn’t finish the sentence, instead her hand twitching up to her head — to her broken horns. “A narrow victory, and you know he outstrips your skill. Would you really run the risk of me gaining my horns again?”

“He was younger than me,” Býleistr said narrowly. “I am better than he was at that age.”

“And likewise, so am I,” Hroar said.

“Then why not challenge me?” Býleistr asked. “If you are so confident, then surely you would beat me?” But then he leered at her. “But you’re not. You must forgive me, I forgot that you don’t like running those risks yourself, do you, murderer?”

“Then perhaps you would like to explain how I find myself here?” she asked. “I did not stroll up to these gates and waved on through without comment. I fought and killed my way here. Thrymr, show my nephew your back.”

Thrymr twitched.

Hroar said softly, “Now.”

Finally, he did as she said. The cloak he wore he unfastened from his throat, and it fell to the floor.

Thrymr’s back was a mess of scar tissue. The heritage lines that had once been there were lost in the mess. It was as if one of his direwolves had gone half-mad and flayed him alive with its teeth and claws.

Hroar did not miss the widening of Býleistr’s eyes. “Call me a coward again, Laufeyson,” she said, “and I will do the same to you.” Býleistr’s face slackened, and Hroar smiled. “It has been a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said, and he could imagine how much she wanted to take those words back and spit out what was really on her mind, “but I’m afraid I am to retire now. Being with child can be _exhausting_.”

 _Liar_ , Býleistr thought furiously; she would have been barely a few weeks along.

“Thrymr, love, tell your guests they are to leave. Immediately.”

“I have not yet dismissed you,” Býleistr said sharply.

“What else do you have to say to me?” Hroar asked. “Will you rant and rave and scream at me that I’m an honourless traitor?”

“My sire would summon you to his presence,” Býleistr said. He could pin her like this. No matter if Thrymr had claimed her, both verbally and physically, she could not ignore his sire.

“Then I must wait for his call,” Hroar said. “You may act on his behalf, but if you can do nothing but gape at me like an idiot fish, then there is little point of me staying.” Then she turned and left Býleistr and Thrymr behind.

Býleistr glared at Thrymr and snarled, “Call the feast off, and I will give you matching scars on your front.”

Thrymr, who would have no doubt objected on a different occasion, seemed spooked by the confrontation between Býleistr and Hroar, even more so at Býleistr’s commanding tone. He exited the antechamber to find his guards waiting outside. He didn’t say anything to them as he strode up the hall, marching stiff shouldered back to his and Grýla’s chambers.

When he opened the door, Býleistr found Grýla pacing. She whipped around when she saw him. “Bý?”

He was silent for a second, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. Then, he bellowed, “Get me Skrikja!”

“Bý,” Grýla said, striding to him and taking his face in her hands. “Bý, look at me.”

“She’s,” Býleistr rasped, slumping against the wall and struggling for breath. “Why—? She’s supposed to be dead….”

“I know, I know, but she isn’t. We’ll find out why, I promise, and then well rectify the situation.”

“I can’t _do this again_.” Býleistr felt as if he were waking from an over long dream. It was as Hroar had said — how many people must he witness come back from the dead? How many more, hated or not?

Grýla didn’t say anything in reply, merely stroked his hair and hummed low in her throat.

Eventually, a knock broke the atmosphere, and Býleistr looked up towards the door, straightened himself, and said curtly, “Enter.”

The door opened, and a slight she-jötunn, flanked by two of his guard, one of them his captain Kaldgrani, came in. Skrikja was the head of Laufey’s spy ring in Þrymheimr, and had held the position for decades; she had never failed in retrieving information such as this before. The lack of it couldn’t go ignored, either.

She was cool and collected as bowed deeply and said, “Your Highness.”

Býleistr wasn’t interested in that now. He drummed his fingers on his arms. “Why haven’t we known about this, Skrikja?” he asked, almost shouting at her. “This is nothing _small_!”

“Forgive me, my prince,” Skrikja said, hoisting herself into a straighter stance. “We did not know ourselves. Tonight has been the first night she has been seen. All we knew of her existence was that Thrymr had taken a new mate, one who had humiliated him in private _hólmganga_ — we reported such a long time ago, soon after Loki-Prince’s arrival. Then she shut herself away in the royal suites, attended to by Thrymr’s most loyal servants. Please, Býleistr-Prince, forgive our incompetence.”

Býleistr looked down his nose at her. “I don’t understand how something this _big_ couldn’t be found out. Why hadn’t you found any who were willing to talk? How many of your ring are here? A dozen? Two dozen? And _all_ of you together could not manage something?” He shook his head. “You’re dismissed from your post, Skrikja. Your second-in-command will take your position as of my dismissal.”

“Yes … my prince.”

“I expected information from you,” he said finally. “Make sure you do not fail me, or your king, again.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And be discreet.”

When Skrikja had left, Býleistr turned to the captain of his guards. “I need to contact my sire,” he said. “Now.”

* * *

#

* * *

“One, two … _gotcha_!”

Helblindi slapped his piece down on the board and grinned at Sigyn. They were sat at the low table in the solar, a _Hnefatafl_ board between them. Helblindi, the aggressor in this round, was one move away from capturing Sigyn’s king piece.

Sigyn hummed under her breath, moving her finger over the board in a lazy circle. “I think you forget, Helblindi-Prince, this piece.” She put her finger on one of her stones and moved it to trap Helblindi’s. After she took Helblindi’s captured stone away, a clear path had been marked for her to the corner of the board, her other pieces arranged so Helblindi would have a difficult time gaining the upper hand once more.

His eyes widened in understanding, and his mouth dropped open in utter displeasure. “ _What?!_ But …? … You sure you didn’t cheat, Sig?”

“I’m quite certain, my prince.”

“I’m Helblindi. Stop calling me ‘prince’. Or just ‘Blindi; don’t mind.”

“Of course, Helblindi.”

Helblindi turned to Loki, who was sitting on one of the other couches and very amused by the whole spectacle, and asked, “Sig’s cheating, isn’t she?”

“She’s not,” Loki said.

“But I had her _trapped_ ,” Helblindi whined.

“And Sigyn outsmarted you, so better luck next time,” Loki said absently, turning back to work on his jötunn runes.

“I challenge you to another match,” Helblindi declared. “And Loki’s gonna help me be—”

A knock sounded on the door, and Loki slammed his book shut and shoved it away before the door opened.

“Princes, my lady,” the servant said, bowing hastily before asking, “The king and queen-consort are here?”

“Why?” Loki asked.

“There is an urgent message from Býleistr-Prince.”

Helblindi shot from his place at once, running up the solar’s stairs and calling for Laufey and Fárbauti. Sigyn too stood, crossing to the servant and holding out her hand. The servant gave her a gem — a ruby perhaps the size of her knuckle and engraved with _Radeo_ runes. The servant closed the door behind himself and Sigyn came back to Loki, presenting the ruby to him.

“You know how these function?”

“Err …?”

“Here.” She stooped next to the table, picking up a metallic cylinder Loki had always assumed was either some sort of paperweight or decoration. “You slot this in the top,” Sigyn said, rolling the ruby between her fingers, “then stand back. It’ll project an image of yourself to your partner and theirs to you.”

“How is it done? Is it based off quantum entanglement?” Loki asked before he could stop himself. “If it is, Asgard has a similar technology, but not on this scale. This is tiny….” He was fascinated, but his thoughts were cut off when he heard footsteps. Sigyn gave Loki both the ruby and the projection piece.

Laufey waved his hand at Loki, and Loki hid a scowl before he pushed the ruby into the hole and set the projector on the floor. The runes flared, and he stepped back as an image began to take shape above the projector. Býleistr and Grýla, as well as few metres of the room around them.

Býleistr looked up sharply as the image came in focus, and he sagged with relief. He looked terrible, Loki thought.

“Sire,” Býleistr said, urgent. “Hroar lives. She’s here.”

Laufey’s face paled, and Fárbauti snarled. Sigyn’s lips pursed, and she muttered to Loki, “I should go.”

“Wh—?”

But Sigyn was gone, padding up the stairs after quickly bowing to Laufey and Fárbauti.

“But … she died, didn’t she?” Helblindi asked. He look at his parents. “You said she died.”

“We … we were wrong,” Fárbauti said, turning to him and squatting to his level.

“Is she going to try kill you and Sire again?” Helblindi whispered, fear seeping into his tone.

“Who’s Hroar?”

All of them turned to Loki. He lifted an eyebrow and asked flatly, “Who?”

“She would’ve been your aunt once,” Laufey said.

“I thought she was dead,” Loki said dismissively. “Or is this another dirty family secret?”

“She killed your _amma_ ,” Fárbauti said gently. “Grandmother, I think the word is.”

“And not in _hólmganga_ ,” Helblindi said to Loki. “She ripped her throat out. But there was an investigation, and at the end of it, Hroar was questioned. She’d been on the throne since then, had been for months, and then she confessed she’d done it. She said Amma was a weak ruler, and that she could have done better, and would do. But then Sire challenged her for the throne, and he beat her. He broke her horns and took her heritage lines and banished her and—”

“Helblindi, that’s enough,” Laufey said finally. “Go. You need not be here for this discussion.”

Loki had expected Helblindi to grumble at the dismissal, but he was silent as he tucked the _Hnefatalf_ board under his arm went upstairs, presumably to find Sigyn and take up the offer of another round. Loki thought he might go and watch them. He stood and started after Helblindi.

“Loki, stay,” Laufey said without looking at him.

Loki stalked back to his previously vacated seat and sat down, putting his feet on the table and crossing his arms.

Once he was sure Helblindi was out of earshot, he said tersely, “I was told I’d _had_ an aunt. Dead. Deceased.”

“And you did,” Laufey said. “She’s no longer your aunt.”

“She still breathes.”

“Perhaps the shade of her does,” Fárbauti said, “but she is not your aunt. She has suffered the _kynkvísl-slíta_.”

“The …?”

“It was what happened to Hrimgerd,” Býleistr said, somewhat impatiently. “When his heritage lines were taken from him. To suffer it is to suffer disownment.”

“Now,” Laufey said, “tell me what happened.”

Býleistr shifted his weight, casting his gaze to the ground listlessly. “There was a welcoming feast,” he said lowly, “and she was there. We … conversed later. Hroar has Thrymr whipped like an animal called to heel.” Býleistr lifted his lip in a silent snarl. “Sire, she’s disfigured him. His back is made of scars. They make mine look like pin scratches.”

Fárbauti hissed.

“But that’s not all,” Býleistr continued. “She’s pregnant. By Thrymr.”

Laufey snarled, and Loki jumped when he suddenly roared and drove his foot into one of the couches. It flipped through the air, shattering against the far wall. “That … that _fucking_ … _níðingr_!”

If Laufey was using language like that — for Loki had enough of a grasp on the jötunn language to know _níðingr_ was an insult on par with _cunt_ for its absolute foulness — he had to have been unspeakably furious. Býleistr and Fárbauti were silent, each grimacing as they watched Laufey’s wrath. Loki didn’t know what to think of it.

“How does she live?” Laufey asked finally, shoulders shaking. When Býleistr didn’t offer anything, Laufey rounded on him and roared, “ _How, boy?!_ ”

“She said it had been through legerdemain, Sire,” Býleistr said in a small voice. “The skull that was found was a fake.”

“Skrýmir-Goði said it was genuine,” Fárbauti said, desperate.

“I know,” Býleistr said grimly. “I’m still trying to figure out how she managed to fool even Skrýmir.”

“Sváss, is there a spell that could make the bones found appear real?” Laufey asked.

“I don’t know—”

“Why is this so important?” Loki finally demanded, sick of being left out of the loop. They all turned to look at him, and Loki went on, “My gr— Búri killed his father and installed himself on Asgard’s throne, and he was not challenged. His father was a weak king, failing, so if the jötnar are so concerned with strength, then shouldn’t Hroar have been hailed?”

But Fárbauti looked horrified, as did Býleistr and Laufey.

“She murdered Amma,” Býleistr said slowly. “She didn’t kill her in _hólmganga_.”

“But I slaughtered jötnar like pigs in Þengraðr, and you praised me for it,” Loki said, angry. “You killed Hrimgerd without any kind of _hólmganga_. Why not Nál too?”

Laufey was looking at Loki flatly, the tendons straining in his neck.

“There is a difference between justice and murder,” Fárbauti said.

“You call Þengraðr justice?” Loki sneered. “It was a culling, as I assume Nál’s death was—”

“You go too far,” Laufey snarled.

“ _Then what happened?_ ” Loki cried. “I won’t have more secrets hidden from me. I am sick of them and your cryptic bullshit.”

Laufey’s lack of reaction wasn’t what Loki expected. The times he had shouted at the king, he had gotten at least the lift of a lip, or a word in edgeways to defend himself, but now there was nothing.

“Fárbauti,” Laufey said, “stay and discuss this with Býleistr. Loki, come with me.”

Loki stiffened. No. He could count on one hand the number of times he had spent alone with the king — twice when he had first awoken in Jötunheimr, when Laufey had cornered him in the corridor after he had sworn his oaths of loyalty, and when he had come to him after Sigyn and Glut’s _hólmganga_. None of those encounters had gone well.

Laufey went to the door, and Loki stood when he was halfway outside. He tried to quiet the anxiety bubbling in his mind, biting the inside of his cheek when the door slammed shut. Even eight months later, Loki still, deep down, feared the king.

“Come.”

Loki followed mutely.

They walked through the passages to the main staircase, servants and minor lords and ladies bowing their heads as they passed. They descended the stairs, following the ways to the bathing pools. But they didn’t outright follow those passages. The right branch at the bottom of the stairs that led to the pools Laufey ignored, instead taking the left one that Loki had never been down. It was decidedly colder, and Loki could hear voices at the end of the corridor that went steeply downwards. He soon caught sight of a guardhouse next to a gate that blocked the entire passage. The guards standing outside it sprung to attention when they saw Laufey, and quickly opened the gate.

The hinges cracked as the ice coating them broke; Loki wondered if the gates had been opened at all recently.

“Leave them open,” Laufey said to one of the guards, and he bowed.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Another flight of steps awaited them on the other side, these ones long and wide enough that Loki had to take a step across them before he could put his foot on the next one down. It was achingly cold down here, his breath coming in front of his face in a cloud. But he refused to put his arms around himself, and did his best to keep his shivers to a minimum. He was half-tempted to ask why Laufey was bringing him down here, but when the stairs ended and the beyond chamber came into view, Loki’s words died on his tongue. His breath was taken away by what he saw.

He could think of no other word but _sepulchre_ — and the biggest one he’d seen at that. It made Asgard’s open throne room where Thor took his coronation look tiny. Vaulted ceilings dripping with icicles stretched as far back as the eye could see, surely running right underneath Útgarðar’s city itself. It was a tactical disadvantage, Loki thought. Foolish in the extreme. But that wasn’t his primary concern for the moment: it was the graves. They were grotesque.

There were hundreds of them embedded into the walls, columns, and floor, stacked one on top of the other in neat rows, the bodies enshrouded in ice as clear as glass. Clear enough that he could see each and every killing wound the jötunn had sustained. Severed heads, torn throats, chests that still held blades from every realm, teeth sunk into necks, bullet holes and scorch marks and wounds of torture lined almost every body. And Norns, the arrangement of the bodies; Loki could see one corpse whose skin had been pulled away from the face, and it still hung in tatters from the skull, forever held in a frozen moment in the ice. He was no stranger to the sight of a battlefield, but the arrangement of the bodies, of the accentuation and glorification of killing wounds, was something else entirely.

 _If I die here_ , he thought, _then my body too will become this._

But he said nothing, merely looked upon them with an expression of apt curiosity. He vowed then and there to himself that if he were to die here, then it would be from a clean wound. He may have hated his body, but he still had pride enough.

“The jötnar do not burn their dead as the Æsir do,” Laufey said as he followed Loki’s gaze. “If bodies are disposed of, left to rot and turn to ash, then they will leave the realms when the last who holds memories of them too leaves. Their strength and courage will not be forgotten like this. Their deaths will be forever glorious.”

“You take the display of strength much too seriously,” Loki muttered.

“You don’t take it seriously enough,” Laufey said. “Come.”

Loki followed him, the two of them tracing a route through the graves. Silence hung thick between them, and soon a structure loomed from the dark: a separate chamber in the middle of the space. It was crafted beautifully, an echo of what Loki had seen of Útgarðar’s walls with the marmennill blood.

A doorway was set into the middle of the structure, and Laufey entered, Loki following close behind. He stopped, gazing around.

This was the burial chambers of jötunn royalty. Almost all of the bodies, male and female both, had horns; the occasional ones without them Loki assumed were the spouses of the then ruling king or queen. These bodies too was arranged like those outside, although all the bodies were in the walls rather than in the floor as well.

“It’s humbling, is it not?” Laufey asked from further inside.

“I was wondering,” Loki said, annoyed, “what happens when you run out of room?”

“We dig down.” Laufey jerked his head to the side — a sign for Loki to keep following.

Loki did so, gaze flickering almost unwillingly towards the corpses. Were … were these his ancestors? Did he have blood relations with these jötnar?

Laufey ducked into one of the side chambers in the structure, and Loki after him. The chamber itself wasn’t like the main one, and held fewer bodies — only four. Just one of them had horns.

“They are the rulers with whom we share our blood,” Laufey said. He gestured to one of the males. Whilst he didn’t have horns on his forehead, a pair were hung around his neck on a black iron chain. “My _föðurafi_ was not born into royalty; rather he challenged his queen to _hólmganga_ and won her horns. She is not buried in this place. He and his mate—” Laufey pointed to the female who didn’t have horns, “—ruled until he died and his only child, my dam, took his place.”

Loki had already moved closer to one of the female bodies — the one with horns protruding from her skull. She held traces of Laufey’s features, but Loki couldn’t look at them. He saw only the state of her neck.

Her jugular had been torn from its place. Claw marks and what suspiciously looked like part of a half-moon bite marred her throat. If Loki strained his eyes, he could see the gleaming white bone of her spinal column.

“This is …?”

“Your _amma_ : Nál.”

Loki still thought of his Æsir grandmother, Bestla, who was Odin’s mother. But he felt detached from this she-jötunn — she was just another corpse in an endless sea of them.

“Neither of us will die of natural causes,” Laufey said, and Loki looked away from the body. “But there are many in this realm who will — from starvation, sickness, old age, and poor genetics — but for royalty? It is near impossible. We will be cut down one night, by blade or poison or tooth and claw or by some other nefarious method, as will your children and theirs after. The jötnar take pride in their deaths. The weak die of old age, and the sick; they are unworthy.”

“How happy,” Loki said dryly. “No wonder I am so pessimistic: your genes are shining through.”

Laufey looked at him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “So I am your father now?”

“It is either you or Odin, and I hate him a little more tonight.” Loki turned his gaze back to Nál’s body. The truth was much more terrifying. He couldn’t hate Laufey as he had once done. The marmennill blood had done more than show him the past — it had reignited some spark of … love? Affection? A bond, anyhow. The bond Angrboða had told him of. No matter how much Loki wished to break it, or how much he clawed at the feeling of it in his head and chest, he couldn’t figure out how. He wanted his uncomplicated channel. “I have dreams of cutting you down,” he said. “Of making you pay for what you’ve done to me. They’re the only reason I can stand the blood in my veins: knowing that half of it is yours and it will be your destruction.”

“Is that a threat?”

“You just said you will die by blade, poison, or tooth and claw; why should I not be the one to deliver it?”

“Such were the thoughts of my sister.” Laufey paused before he asked quietly. “What do they teach you on Asgard of the war?”

Loki frowned. “That your greed is unmatched,” he said. “That you would not stop conquering planets and realms until Yggdrasil was yours. Father … Odin, saw you turn your eyes to Midgardr and when you led your armies there, the Æsir stepped in to drive you back. They teach that the Allfather is the noble man, and you the twisted villain.” It was a blunt recitation, and it had meant to hurt.

But Laufey hadn’t reacted to it. “And that is all?”

“You are the aggressor, the monster — jötunn,” Loki said. “That’s all the reason Asgard needs.”

“I have a great number of sins,” Laufey said, “Hroar being one of them, the war another, and Býleistr’s scars one of my most terrible.”

“So you won’t drug me with marmennill blood?” Loki asked, clipped. “Make me understand with words that you’re not a monster? Do you want me to forgive you?”

“I want you to understand what has brought all of us here — including me to the throne.”

“A history lesson, then,” Loki said flippantly. “One of correction. Try your best then, Laufey-King. Educate me properly.”

“There is nothing to correct,” Laufey said. “There are, however, gaps to be filled. You don’t want any more family secrets, so there will be none.”

Loki glared at Laufey, sullen.

“I too was a secondborn child, but unlike you, I had a sister,” Laufey said. “She was vain, proud, and cruel. Cruel in the way I am, and in the way you and Býleistr too are. She was manipulative, but brilliant, a hoarder of secrets and schemes. I idolised her, as did everyone. The court loved her, the people too, as did I. But I did not envy her the throne.”

Loki’s throat was dry. It sounded too familiar a story, and he wished he could drown Laufey’s words out, or Laufey would suddenly bite his tongue off.

“She was ambitious, one who loved to stir the courts and pit others against each other for her own amusement. She was clever in that way, but yet she could be kind, for all of her masochist politics, she was aware of the common people. Everyone was clamouring for her to take the throne, and by Oblivion she wanted it.

“We used to sit with our heads together in the solar, dreaming of what we could turn Jötunheimr into, how she could, with me supporting her, lift this realm to rival even Asgard. She was a dreamer, an idealist, and it was her downfall.

“Soon after my horns came, Hroar and my dam started arguing. Our dam’s politics did not match Hroar’s dreams, and it was a gap that grew. It estranged them. I can’t remember a week going by in which they didn’t argue. Time went on, during which I met and wooed your dam. Hroar hated her.

“The decades went by, and the estrangement grew worse. My sire was killed in a skirmish during that time, and soon after that, Hroar left the royal suites, retreating instead to her lover’s dwellings in Gastropnir. My dam almost went mad with the grief of them leaving.

“It was a hunt a few years later that ended her. I was to hold the throne until she returned, but she never did. Instead, I received news of her death.” Laufey said to Loki, “My dam didn’t deserve the death she received. She was not killed with honour. She was killed quietly, by a coward in the shadows. Her body was tossed to the bottom of the gorge in which the party hunted. She was missing for two nights, found only when the meltwater took her past the camp.

“Hroar came back after Nál’s death, and I didn’t challenge her when she took the throne from my hands — I had no wish to sit upon it, and was too drowned in my grief. Perhaps my first clue to how far she had strayed was for the fact she recovered so quickly. I had thought her strong at the time; now I see it as it really was: they held no bond.”

Loki had never seen words stick in Laufey’s throat before, and yet they did now. Loki thought back to what Angrboða said about breaking bonds, and how much it hurt. Did it still hurt even a millennium later? He’d have to ask her about them.

“I did not challenge her because we had our plans, our dreams. I was content with my position. But as Helblindi said, an investigation went on. People were questioned, casts of teeth and claws were taken, hers and mine both. The water had destroyed much of the evidence, and so it was a slow going task. If our bodies are not treated in a manner such as this quickly — freezing the flesh in place in an instant — we are quick to return to the ice. Hroar was brought under suspicion, and her lover questioned. He told us Hroar had left Gastropnir some weeks before hand.

“It came to the point when there was so much evidence weighed against Hroar that she confessed. I remember it still now — her words still echoing in the silence of the throne room long after her mouth had closed. I was still hurting from my dam’s death, and so I was quick to challenge Hroar to _hólmganga_. For justice, and for the throne.”

“And you won,” Loki said.

“Aye.” Laufey was still for a moment. “It was a long fight, one of the longest in my life. After a near half-hour, I stood above her, barely able to stay on my feet, with more blood on my skin than I’ve ever had. I broke her horns in front of fifty thousand witnesses.” His voice was so quiet when he next spoke Loki had to strain his ears to hear him. “So there I was, barely grown into my horns and holding my sister’s in each hand. ‘Kill me,’ she said. But I didn’t — I still loved her too much. But I loved my dam too, and so she was subjected to _kynkvísl-slíta_ and banished. A mistake now I see.

“I was more alone than I’ve ever been in my life. My court was broken, my enemies many, and my lines had not yet turned dark. I was a half-century older than you are now. I was naïve, foolish in the extreme, and many sought to use that against me.

“I had been close to my sister, and it was no secret that we had dreamt together, and that my sister’s tongue was equally one of poison and silver. Some feared she had tainted me too, that she had made me weak. I was desperate to distance myself from her. I fought countless _hólmganga_ against my political enemies, and I won them all, bringing the provinces to heel one at a time. I conquered a land that should have rightfully been mine, but it wasn’t enough. I had tasted power, and I was hungry for more. So I sought to conquer the planet, to coat it in winter and bring it under the rule of the ice jötnar forever.”

Horror was blossoming in Loki’s chest. _I really am the spawn of a monster_ , he thought. _To prove his worth because some thought him incapable. He’s worse than Thor._ His claws cut into his palms.

“It took three hundred years of war, and eventually they were all conquered — the mountain jötnar, the storm jötnar, the sea jötnar … all of them. That _kyn_ after the end of the war, Býleistr was conceived. But still it was not enough; I wanted even more.”

“So you turned your eye to Midgardr,” Loki realised.

“After two-hundred and fifty years, the army marched. The Midgardians were mayflies, their technology primitive, and their planet easy to conquer.” Laufey looked Loki in the eye. “The night before we marched, your dam and I lay together to have you, so you would know two realms in your childhood.”

“But it didn’t work,” Loki said through clenched teeth. “Asgard interfered.” He knew the rest.

“After three years of fighting, they won the war,” Laufey said simply. “Left a broken Jötunheimr in its wake. I fought more, re-established myself to my council and court, and then my people. And only afterwards did my thoughts calm enough to realise the full weight of what I had done.”

“And it took losing your son to realise that?” Loki asked, a jumping growl of disbelief in his voice. “It took your people dying, your son’s disfiguring, and my fate and suffering to understand what an arrogant son of a bitch you are? If you want my pity for your shortcomings, you’ll have to try harder than that. Odin was right: you’re a selfish, vain monster who cares more for his reputation than anything else.”

“You still call me monster?” Laufey asked, narrowing his eyes. “You too could be considered monstrous if you were examine the horrors you’ve committed and your thoughts of patricide.” Loki twitched. “What is your justification born of? Do you seek an apology for what happened to you?”

“I seek an acknowledgement,” Loki said scathingly. “Your story may have filled the gaps for your side of the war, but I still think no better of you. I still think you a monster who cares not an iota about anything except his ego. You say I don’t understand your feelings towards me, that I’m wrong about mine, but I don’t see how. You _beat me_ , you _starved me_ , and then you expect me to accept that you’re the victim in this?”

“Did I say that I was a victim? Do you say this now because you feel you are?” Laufey said, curt. “Do you want a hug?”

“Why? Do you want to give me one?” Loki replied smoothly.

Laufey took a step towards him, raising his arms, and Loki flinched back. Laufey sneered at Loki’s reaction. “I can play this game too, Loki,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “You are not superior to me, nor I to you. Once you accept that, perhaps you’ll see the gap you have been determined to impose is not as wide as you think.”

 _Then I’ll widen it more_ , Loki thought. _You will not change me._

“What do you desire acknowledgement for?” Laufey asked.

“Oh,” Loki snapped, his temper spiking, “perhaps the fact that you’ve ruined me over the past eight months. That you ripped me away from my life without even the chance for me to understand—” He was on the cusp of saying more, but closed his mouth. “I hurt,” he said flatly. “If you care for me, then know that this bitter, hateful creature before you is one of your many sins.”

He turned away, and he barely heard Laufey say to the space, “It is my greatest.” Loki swallowed minutely, but continued on, pretending not to hear.


	32. Chapter Twenty-Seven - King's Mantle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 02-12-2015**

“Next!”

The winter sunlight was chilly to the spectators around the sparring ring, but Thor hardly felt it, despite his lightweight clothing. He had built up a slight sweat, sparring with the Vanir who deigned to either through a sense of duty or through the want of a challenge. There were perhaps a dozen or so who had expressed the desire to fight with him, and the rest of the stands were full of those who simply wished to watch. Baldr had come along as well, and, Thor saw from the corner of his eye, was more interesting in trying to catch grapes in his mouth than what was happening below him. There were others there still who came because they hoped to see Thor beaten.

In the month following Yule, Thor had kept his eyes open and his head down. Word had spread of what had happened during the after feast. The Vanir were jumpy around him, and there were a fair few whom he knew scorned him. The jötunn lover.

Those weeks were a time of intense frustration to him. He regretted not having the Warriors Three around for the fact he didn’t have anyone to talk to about what Sigrítha had shown him with her Second Sight. He had no wish to talk about it with his cousins, nor with his uncle, nor did he want to continue to burden Sif with his melancholy — he’d done that enough.

But what the visions had done was guide him towards something else other than grief. At first, he had thought it was closure, but it hadn’t seemed the right word as the days continued to go by. As Sigrítha had said, the Second Sight did not lie. What he had seen in her mirror had occurred at one point or another. Norns it hurt, but it hurt too when an arrow shaft was drawn from a wound. It hurt to know that Loki, unlike him, was moving on. _Loki_ of all people, and not him.

 _How could Loki have accepted this?_ Thor thought, squaring off with the next opponent in the ring before rushing him with Jarnbjorn. _Those beasts are_ jötunn _._ He’d found what it was that had replaced the grief and then his before-called closure: it was fury.

He was furious with Loki, with Laufey, with the woman Loki had been kissing, with his father, with his mother, with Sigrítha, with the vanr with whom he was sparring, and himself mostly. When it came to his family angering him, it was a beast that awoke slowly, and when it was roused, it rampaged and destroyed without mercy — a blast of anger that quickly ran its course. But this was the first time in his memory that his anger had endured for so long.

A kick to the chest sent his opponent sprawling in the dust, and Thor closed the distance between the two of them, putting his knee into the vanr’s chest and Jarnbjorn’s blade on his throat. “Surrender?”

“Aye, Highness,” the vanr said quickly.

Thor let him up, all the while calling, “Next.”

Of those who had volunteered to spar, there were three he had yet to challenge. Thor could pick them out easily enough — they were the ones who, despite not being covered in dust, still held the certainty about them that they would be the one to finally down him.

One of the three grasped his sword in hand, and a few cheered as he stepped out to face Thor. They squared off, waiting for the other to move. Finally, the vanr jumped for Thor. The match lasted longer than some of the others had, but still Thor defeat his opponent, flipping him head over heels to crash down on one of his shoulders. Thor held the vanr’s sword in hand and pointed it down at his chest. “Go,” he said, tossing the sword aside. “Next.”

“Norns, Cousin,” Baldr drawled from the side, “are you not yet bored? You’ve proven your might beyond doubt.”

Thor ignored him; another was coming forward. He was slighter than Thor was expecting, but it was of no concern — as long as he put up a challenging fight, Thor wouldn’t complain. Thor studied him as he stepped into the ring. His face was expressionless, his dark eyes mirror-flat. His armour too was just as unreadable: painted black, unreflective, and had traded durability for lightness and flexibility. He held a spear in hand, and several long dirks were sheathed in his belt.

“Highness,” the vanr murmured, bowing before him. He twirled his spear in hand, and several in the crowd hooted.

“Black Crow!”

 _That’s obsolete—_ Thor thought before the vanr rushed him. Thor barely got Jarnbjorn around in time to deflect the spear. The Crow’s non-expression remained in place as he used the momentum from Thor’s strike the fuel his own, pivoting on the ball of his foot and striking out with the pommel of the spear. Thor used Jarnbjorn’s handle to block, jumping out of the way of the Crow’s foot as it went towards his knee. It was a near miss.

 _Finally_ , Thor thought, _a challenge._

He rushed forward, Jarnbjorn low at his side and feet kicking up dust.

His scarred training leathers were hot and stuck to his chest after mere minutes. Thor had too sustained several shallow cuts along his bare arms, and the paint of the Crow’s armour was chipped in several places, shiny scratches on many more.

The Crow was lightning quick. He jabbed at Thor’s feet, forcing him to dance back to avoid the blows. It unsettled his balance, and then, too fast for Thor to properly comprehend, the vanr ducked low and twisted, striking Thor’s feet out from under him. Thor fell to the ground with a heavy _oomph!_ , and then, a split second later, the Crow was kneeling on his chest, the blade of his spear hovering an inch away from his throat. Thor felt his breath by his ear. Shock clouded his mind. How—?

“Your brother’s alive,” the Crow whispered in Thor’s ear. “He’s the _Laufeyson_.”

Ice grabbed at his heart. Thor stilled for a half second, the match driven from his mind as quick as a lightning flash. … What? How …? But he came back to his senses just as quickly, an overwhelming desperation to _fix_ seizing him. He kneed the vanr in the groin and pushed him away. The Crow stumbled back as Thor rose to his feet, advancing on him. He bellowed, lifting Jarnbjorn high before bringing it down hard enough to break his partner’s spear into half a dozen pieces. Thor kicked a section of the shattered shaft away, and growled to the ring at large, “I’m done.”

He walked jerkily from the ring, slipping Jarnbjorn back into its holder and ignoring Baldr’s steps behind him.

“Cousin!” Baldr called after him. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Thor said stiffly. “I’m done.”

“I heard that part—”

“I’m — _done_.”

Baldr sighed, his shoulders dropping almost comically low. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me later why the sudden change of heart?”

Thor grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him into a shadowy corner of the arena. Baldr yelped in surprise, but stilled as Thor backed him into a wall. “Cousin …? What—?”

“Have you told _anyone_?” Thor asked harshly.

“Told anyone what?”

“About my brother?”

“Wh—? No! I swore an oath to hold my tongue—”

“He knew,” Thor growled, jerking his head back towards the ring. “The vanr knew. He whispered it in my ear.”

Baldr was the one to freeze now. “He … Thor, he could’ve just …”

“Just what?” Thor shook his head and let Baldr go. “Norns, that’s not just something you guess from out of the blue, nor would it be a solution many would think of. Someone has said something — there’s no doubt of that.”

His heart was beating fast. The council. The council knew, and the ambassadors, and the rest of his family. Too many people knew, and all the pressure on Asgard to attack Jötunheimr, all the potential tongues that could slip the truth….

“How?” Thor asked, barely keeping his voice down. He wanted to destroy something, to release his anger and fear and worry into something else just to expel it from him. “How could this have _happened_?!”

“Thor, calm down,” Baldr said, his voice low. “We’ll alert the spymaster and he’ll track down the source. We’ll discover how far this rumour has spread and whom it has spread to. It is a rumour, and only a rumour — we can control it by ignoring it.”

“I know,” Thor said, “but I need to find out who went deep enough into their cups to spill it. I’ll find them, I swear it, and I’ll beat them bloody for breaking their oath to me, to their king—”

“Beating them or killing them will only add more truth to this,” Baldr said quickly. “It’s best to ignore it, alright? If it’s ignored, then it’ll just be a passing piece of gossip, I promise. A bee stings when it’s aggravated. We’ll go to Mother, and we’ll tell her, yes? She’ll make the arrangements to contain this.”

Thor nodded, slumped and suddenly exhausted. He felt hollow as Baldr started to make his way back to the palace, dragging his feet and obeying his cousin’s directions almost robotically.

 _It’s a rumour_ , his mind kept whispering. _Don’t worry. It’ll blow over._

 _But it’s the truth_ , Thor thought, sickness rising in his gut. _And I don’t know what to do._

* * *

#

* * *

Thor retired early that night. Five days had passed since the Crow had whispered in his ear, and he was exhausted. He had been in deep discussion with Sigrítha and her council, the truth now too pressing to keep secret. Several of the members had been outraged at the news.

“ _Jötunn?_ ” one of them had blustered, face turning puce as he looked between Thor, Sigrítha, and Hœnir as if searching for reassurance that it was a joke. “The Allfather would have never taken one of those things into his care!”

“My brother is not a thing,” Thor had snapped, “and the next one of you to say so I’ll personally gut.”

No mention of the word ‘thing’ in relation to Loki was used again.

Thor had spoken with his mother and father too, and both of them had requested he return to Asgard at once. But he couldn’t go back. Not yet. He needed to be assured of the situation in Vanaheimr first, to make sure the truth stayed only as a rumour and that it was dead before he called for Heimdallr.

“I’ll handle the problem here,” Thor insisted. “Question the council and the ambassadors, and have them examine the blockade around Jötunheimr. If there’re rats slipping through, they need to be caught.”

“I shall,” Frigga said in the flames. “Your father thinks Baldr’s council wise — be subtle in your investigations, and trust the spies. Do not add fuel to this fire, my son.”

He promised he wouldn’t.

Despite the early turn in, and despite how tired he was, Thor awoke some bare hours later. He turned over, burying his head under his pillow. Worry clamoured in his mind, and he felt queasy and ill, like if he were to move or even open his mouth he would vomit. Norns knew how the worry had driven him to sickness twice already. But he sat up a second later when he realised Sif wasn’t next to him. A light was on in the bathroom, and he heard her spitting into the sink.

“Sif?”

He got up and padded to the bathroom. Thor found her leaning on the benchtop, staring at her reflection in the wide mirror. She looked pale, her hair mussed from sleep, and a toothbrush lodged in her mouth.

He came into the mirror’s sight, and she looked around at him before spitting into the sink again. “Go back to sleep,” she said. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Is something wrong?”

She shook her head.

“You’re sure?”

Something flickered in Sif’s eyes, and she took a calming breath. “I …” She scuffed at a tile’s corner with her toe. “Thor,” she said, “I … The night when we first lay together …” Thor had a niggling suspicion at where this was going, and his chest constricted when Sif didn’t say anything for a few seconds — seconds that began to feel like aeons before she continued. “I didn’t realise I was … was at the … time in my cycle …”

His heart thudded in his chest, and he stood awkwardly on the threshold, gripped by a sudden rush of panic. It was different to the one that he had been living with these past days, enough so it was like a punch in the face. He felt like a child, the awful realisation about his lack of knowledge for what to do next in an important situation. He remembered when he had first been learning swordplay, and his blade had slipped a little in his hand, nicking his sparring partner enough to make him bleed. He’d been terrified more than elated, because it was an accident, and he …

Thor forced himself to come closer to Sif, who eyed him warily, gripping the edge of the counter behind her. He licked his lips and lifted his hand a little. “… May I?”

She said nothing for a few seconds, and then gave a tiny nod. His hand came to rest just below her navel. If he had been expecting to feel anything other than the smooth expanse of her skin, he’d have been disappointed. He stared at it, though, eyes wide. “Will … will you keep it?”

Her fingers, with their nails rough and bitten short, drummed on the marble counter. “Do you want to?”

“I …” Dealing with this, and everything else, at a later time was very appealing. Norns, how was he supposed to answer that _now_? He’d woken up panicked and worried to the point of physical illness barely two minutes beforehand, and now he was faced with the news that … he could be a father in fifteen or sixteen months’ time?

She lifted an eyebrow, and Thor passed a hand over his face, blowing air from his lips as he stood straight. “Sif,” he started, trying to find a diplomatic approach to this, “I … is best?”

“How do you mean?”

“The current political climate of the realms,” he said. “Would it best to bring a child into a world that’s this … unstable?”

“A baby could provide your political distraction regarding the ambassadorial party,” she said. “Your father would welcome it.”

“I’m not thinking about what’s best for my father,” Thor said, angry. “I’m thinking about what’s best for _us_ — including any baby. Do you want it, Sif?”

“I know what I want, but not you. Again I will ask — do you want this child?”

 _She doesn’t want it_ , Thor thought. But did he? “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Would we be ready for something this big to come into our lives? We’ve been seeing each other for a few bare months. We’re not married either, and it wouldn’t take an intellect to do the mathematics and realise such a child was conceived before marriage.”

“You think it best to get rid of it?”

“I didn’t say—”

“ _Duck!_ ”

Thor, his battle instincts sharpened by centuries, dropped to the floor. The glitter of a dagger’s blade whisking over his head as the strike aimed for his heart missed. Sif ran towards him and jumped, bowling into the person behind Thor. There was a muffled scream of pain, and Thor rolled over, quick pants tearing his throat. “Sif—!”

“I’m alright,” she said. She got to her feet, her toothbrush jammed deep enough into the assassin’s eye that only the bristles were visible.

They stepped over the assassin’s corpse, Thor’s hand still jerking up a half-inch for Mjölnir before, once again, remembering she still sat in his father’s office. So, instead, Thor grabbed a vase from a nearby stand, holding it by the slender neck as the two of them circled around the circumference of the room.

The _shish_ of a knife flew past Thor’s face, and he lashed out, the vase smashing against something. The disconcerting lack of sound from the attacker made the hair on the back of Thor’s neck prickle, and he jumped back out of the way of the blade. He dived for the bed, tumbling over the foot of it and reaching for the wall. Decorative shields hung there, and Thor tore one from the mounting pegs, throwing it back like a discus. It made for a poor throwing weapon, but it hit something — there was a grunt of pain. Thor took another shield and charged forward, jumping onto the attacker. The metal handguard at the centre of the shield crashed into the back of the attacker’s head.

“Thor!”

Sif was running towards him, her sword in her right hand red with blood, and Jarnbjorn in her left. Thor threw the assassin into the far wall as Sif tossed the axe to him. Thor caught it and swung it around. The blade sunk into the wall a hair’s breadth away from the assassin’s neck. Thor grabbed for the man, holding his hands above his head with a single one of his own as Sif slid her sword into the assassin’s throat.

“Who sent you?” Thor snarled.

“An enemy,” the assassin rasped.

Thor grabbed at the man’s forehead and smashed his head twice into the wall; his hair was sticky with blood. “I don’t want any games,” Thor said. “ _Who sent you?_ ”

“The people,” the vanr whispered. “Of Asgard and Vanaheimr. Those who are loyal to the ideals of our people — not you _jötunn lovers_.”

Thor and Sif stared, somewhat bewildered.

The vanr smiled — blood stained his teeth. “Yggdrasil laughs at us, jötunn prince. You will bring war on our heads as other thrones take our inaction for weakness. And the House of Odin has become corrupted. You took so-called ‘royal’ jötunn spawn into the Golden Realm, raised it a prince, and mocked us by demanding us call it ‘Highness’. The others will see you brought down before your stupidity kills these realms.”

Thor yanked Jarnbjorn’s handle sideways, and the blade cut into the vanr’s neck. His body crumpled to the floor, head soon following. Then, panting, Thor looked around the room. Now that he was used to the low light, he could see three bodies — one of them the assassin he had just decapitated, another the one Sif had killed with the toothbrush, and a third she had evidently slain lying near a window.

“There’s more,” Thor said, “I’m sure of it. Stay here while I go look.”

“Why?” Sif asked. “It’ll be better if there’s two of us.”

“Because—” Thor started, but Sif’s eyes flashed dangerously, sensing what he was about to say.

“I said I’m pregnant, not helpless,” she snapped. “Do I coddle you if you’re hurt on the battlefield?”

“This isn’t the same,” Thor argued, yanking Jarnbjorn out of the wall.

“It is, Thor. If I lose it, then so be it. It wouldn’t be more than a fingernail long, anyhow.”

“And you’re acting so blasé about this _why_?”

“Because I’m being realistic.” She wiped her sword clean on one of the assassin’s cloaks. “Now come on — I will not have a blade in either of our backs for a petty argument.”

Their armour was sitting where the servants had placed it in an adjoining room. Thor grabbed his chestplate from its stand, too impatient to do up the complex straps of the armoured sleeves. He slapped his bracers on, snapping the clasps in place before kicking off his rough trousers for the reinforced ones. Sif was ready before him, bursting from their chambers as Thor was doing up his last bootstrap. He followed her just as the air was shattered with a scream, and the two of them whipped around together.

Without a word, they sprinted in the direction of the royal wing, Sif thundering along behind him. Lightning sparked from Thor’s skin, jolts of electricity sparking in the air around him as he rounded a corner to find the corridor blocked by a bristling line of spears.

Mjölnir was a channel through which Thor could direct his lightning, not a storage chamber for it as many believed. She was a conduit for the lightning in his heart. He called on it now, and the thunder crashed as it burst from him. Sif’s sword had been warded against electricity, but the bolts were drawn to the spears. Several of the Vanir were blown back, skin charred and blistered and they cried out with pain. As Thor leapt over them, he was surprised to see several of the Vanir were nothing more than young men — one of them was a child, even. Commoners — hardly soldiers at all.

 _The people_ , the vanr had said.

Another scream came through the hall, and Thor ran as fast as he could, wishing for Mjölnir so she could take him there, to _help_ —

The solar’s door had been blown from its hinges, and Thor saw several people inside, some of them Æsir, ransacking the room.

“Sif!” he bellowed. “To them!”

He saw her streak off in the corner of his eye, desperately hoping that she’d be safe. Thor made his way further around the wing, and a group of terrified servants rushed past him in the opposite direction. He grabbed one of the van by the arm and turned her to face him.

“The queen,” he said. “Her family?”

“I do not know, I do not know,” the van babbled. “The doors were open along the hall, fighting…. There’s blood—”

“Guards’?”

“I don’t know. Your Highness, I’m sorry I’m sorry—”

“Get to safety,” Thor said, trying his best to lower his voice. “Make sure any others you come across are seen to safety too. And send for reinforcements. Now go!”

The van nodded and tore away, skirts hiked up around her knees.

Thor couldn’t help but feel worry gnaw at him as he continued along the corridor. She said there was blood, but she was unsure to whom it belonged. There were always guards stationed along the halls, and Thor hoped that they’d managed to hold off the invaders.

But those screams….

Thor rounded a corner, nearly crashing into a wall in his haste to bank the turn, and stopped dead in his tracks.

The courtyard that was in the centre of the royal wing was overrun by Vanir and Æsir alike. A mass of guards were spread around the yard, all of them dead. And at their centre stood Thrúdr, her face half hidden by shadow.

Thor retightened his grip on Jarnbjorn and, when he was about to take a step forward into the courtyard, someone said in the Æsir tongue, “Stop, or they’ll spread.”

“Who?” Thor growled back.

“The messengers.”

Thor took the scene in again. Stationed at the entrances were runners, at least three to each of the six passages. When Thor looked over them, he saw nothing special about them — no scrolls, no bags. No nothing.

He sneered. “And what messages would they deliver? They are empty handed.”

He stalked forward a few steps, but Thrúdr squeaked, “Thor, stay!”

“Thrúdr?”

Thrúdr was shoved forward. Now that she was out of shadow, Thor saw the steel at her throat, and the vanr holding it there. Thor wasn’t terribly surprised to see the Crow, but a flutter of uncertainty passed through him.

“What have you done?” Thor asked, his voice low and dangerous. “Where’s the queen and her consort? Where are the princes?”

“Being dealt with,” the Crow said, languid. “But I think the matter of your cousin is more pressing to you now.”

“What messages are you threatening to spread?” Thor asked, trying his best to brush aside the threat to Thrúdr; he hoped it would bring some of the conversation’s power back to him.

“You know what they will say,” the Crow replied. “They will spread the word of your brother.”

“My brother is dead,” Thor said. “He died months ago on Jötunheimr’s tundras.”

“No wonder the Æsir hold power of Yggdrasil,” the Crow said. “They have lied and slaughtered their way there, and continue to do so to keep their grip on their crown.” The steel opened a line in Thrúdr’s skin; blood beaded on the blade. “Why lie now when we all here know the truth? A truth that is being spread in the inns and alleyways along Yggdrasil’s branches?”

“If that is true,” Thor said evenly, “then your threat of runners is of very little concern to me. Especially when your conviction comes only from a hunch. What do you want me to do — confirm your suspicions? You have left me no choice but to say yes, even though what you believe is false. You would have no other words from me. Loki was never jötunn — he was my brother, made of the same flesh and blood I am.”

“I think not,” the Crow said. “You metioned rumours. Rumour is one thing — an announcement made from the palace steps is another. As for the proof of my belief, I saw your reaction in the sparring ring, how you flinched. That is proof enough that I am correct. These realms have a right to know what your so-called brother is, and I will not see the population, the people that I knew as a child, being played for fools by the powerful. We will not tolerate being lied to; we as your subjects have the right to know what it is our leaders do to govern us. You might think us traitors to Asgard for doing this, but ask yourself — who is the real traitor? Those who are fighting for the truth, or those who continue to lie to hold their power?”

“You fool,” Thor laughed. “You have the nerve to pronounce me a traitor? You, who hold steel to royalty’s throat?”

“I am not betraying the ideology of our peoples like you.”

“You call yourself a patriot, but yet you embody terriorism.”

The Crow bristled. “I will give you a choice, a chance to redeem yourself.” He looked Thor evenly in the eye. “Either you will announce to the realms that Loki is of Jötunheimr and is Laufey’s son, and your family will come to no harm, or I will announce it, and you won’t stop me.”

“I would,” Thor said. “I would strike your head from your shoulders before you took a single step.”

“I do not need to step to slit a throat,” the Crow said. “But—” he held Thrúdr tightly to him, “—regardless if I live or die, you won’t allow your cousin to do so. You won’t be able to stop the message from spreading whilst you fight for her life.

“Choose, Odinson. Choose, liar. Either you shall do it, or I will.”

Thor’s blood ran cold. His mind was scrabbling for an answer, for a solution that he could implement that allowed Thrúdr to walk away unharmed and the truth of Loki’s blood to remain only a rumour.

 _There would be guards between here and the door; they’d stop the messengers_ , he thought. _But no, that wouldn’t work. There’s too many runners, and the corridors a mass of confusion. Even if there were some who’d question anyone they came across, they’d miss some._

_Or I could strike now with Jarnbjorn, kill him, and then go after the runners. But that blasted man’s fast. He’d kill Thrúdr before I’d close the distance._

_Norns, where_ are _you?_ Thor howled of the remaining guards, of his uncle and aunt and cousins, of Sif who he now desperately wished was beside him. _Norns…._

“Princess,” the Crow breathed in Thrúdr’s ear, and the girl flinched back, “is it not disappointing to know that your blood relative cares more for a wretched beast than he does you?”

“Unhand me!”

“A frost giant monster born of ice and Chaos?”

“Thrúdr,” Thor said, shifting his weight and retightening his grip on Jarnbjorn. “Do not listen to him.”

“Oh? Then will you agree to my terms?”

Thor said nothing. He wouldn’t agree. He couldn’t. For pride and family and politics, he wouldn’t give into these craven demands.

“That’s unfortunate, then,” the Crow mused. “On my mark.” The runners tensed, ready to leap forward.

“Wait!” Thor shouted. Amazingly, they did, hanging onto his words. He licked his lips, hands held in front of him in reassurance. “Don’t you see?” he pleaded. “We’re playing into Laufey’s hands. He wants the realms to know! He wants them to crumble so he can conquer us as he once did Midgardr! He’s manipulating us.”

“And who made that possible?” the Crow asked calmly. “It was you, Odinson. Your family. It was the secret kept for so long that has driven us to the point of desperation. The people will know.”

“You do anything, you spread the word,” Thor said, “and they’ve won. The jötnar are creatures of Chaos, and they’ll win by tearing these realms apart. Please, please let her go. Let her go, unharmed, and I swear that you and your men will come under no further harm.”

“Me? I would be killed before I left this wing.”

“I swore, did I not?”

“You are the son of the Allfather,” the Crow asked. “A nest of liars, all of you.”

“I swore,” Thor repeated.

“And so you did. Does this mean you agree to my terms? That you’ll let the truth of your frost giant prince’s blood be known to the people?”

Thor was shaking. “I … I cannot betray the peace of these realms.”

The Crow snorted. “Then I’m sorry, Princess. I tried.”

The steel winked in the torchlight as the blade moved — as the Crow drew the knife across Thrúdr’s throat. Thor roared as his cousin’s eyes widened momentarily before her eyelids fluttered. She slumped against the Crow as Thor charged for him. He grabbed her by the front of her nightgown, holding her close to him as he buried Jarnbjorn into the Crow’s chest. He turned his attention to Thrúdr then, holding his hands to her neck in a desperate bid to keep the blood in; he hardly noticed the runners depart, to spread the news.

“Hey there,” he said. Her throat was working as she tried to swallow, her violet eyes fixed on his and her fingers twitching. “Thrúdr, listen to me,” Thor continued to babble. “It’s be alright, you’ll be fine, everything will be fine.”

She was trying to speak, opening her mouth and choking for air, her chest jumping rapidly. Blood bubbled on her lips, and Thor said harshly, “Don’t talk. Just stay still, Thrúdr. Stay still….”

There was blood everywhere. So, so much of it. It kept spilling from her throat, but Thor had to keep his hands pressed to her skin, had to keep it _inside_. But it kept dribbling between his fingers no matter how tightly he closed them, puddled in his palms no matter how firmly he pressed them flat. He had no mantle with which to apply a bandage, no undershirt … no Mjölnir to cauterise the wound, and he dared not try without her to hold his power back.

“ _Sigrítha!_ ” he screamed. “ _Guard! Help!_ ”

“T-Th … o … or….” Her fingers, Norns, they were grasping for him, trying to get ahold on some piece of him, but Thor couldn’t give her his hand. “I … und … stand.” Tears fell into her hair, and her mouth opened and closed in desperate panic.

“ _SIGRÍTHA!_ ”

“D … on’t … w … to die….”

She had no more breath left in her lungs, and her fingers lost their grip, her hand falling with the smallest of sounds onto the floor swimming with her blood.

“Thrúdr …?” Thor whispered. “Hey … _Thrúdr_ ….” His voice broke. He took one of his hands from her throat and touched her shoulder, shaking her gently when she didn’t respond.

 _No…._ NO!

Thor looked around, wild-eyed at the Crow. The bastard was watching them flatly. He was still— … why was he still alive when Thrúdr—?

“She was a child,” Thor whispered, forcing himself to his feet to tower over the Crow. “She was a child _and you killed her why_?”

The Crow blinked, one bloody hand wrapped around Jarnbjorn’s handle. “So … so you would have your revenge on us for your cousin … but not on Jötunheimr for your brother?”

Thor punched the man in the face. His nose shattered under his fist, and Thor, spit flying from his mouth, yanked Jarnbjorn from the Crow’s chest and reburied it swiftly, hacking him to bloody pieces long after he died.

“You killed her!” he bellowed, Jarnbjorn landing with a wet _thunk_ in what was left of the vanr’s body. “You killed her you killed her _you killed her_!” The berserker rage was grabbing him, and he wanted to slip into it, already had a foot halfway there, but rampaging was not going to help. There were runners spreading the word.

He’d seen enough death in his life to know how to shove the mourning aside. He’d seen enough children die too to know that it hurt something primal inside his chest at the sight of them, but Norns … this was his cousin. His sweet little cousin who had always tailed after him and Loki and her brothers in their youth, who had giggled when they had brought back wildflowers from their hunts for her to press, who loved to collect windchimes and rocks she was convinced had precious stones embedded in them for the way they shone when they caught the light….

Thor sprinted through the closest hall, heading towards the palace doors. He was almost blinded by his grief, and hardly noticed when he caught up to three of the messengers. He swung Jarnbjorn in a wide, messy arc, killing them with a single blow before he retrieved his axe and continued onwards.

 _Move_ , he told himself. _No more of my family will suffer today. My fault, my mistakes …_

Chaos reigned free, servants and lords and ladies running in every direction, shying away from him. Norns, he wouldn’t be able to find the runners in a melee such as this. He tore towards the palace’s main doors — the Crow had said they would make his announcement from the palace steps. But what if he had been lying? What if the runners had slipped out the side gates?

No. If they slipped past, then the announcements would mean shit. They would be nothing more than unconfirmed rumours.

 _Steps_ , Thor thought raggedly. _Get them._

He burst through the crowds clogging the corridors, desperate to get out of the palace. Shouts proceeded him as he sprinted through the Vanir, and he could imagine why — he was covered in blood, half-mad with rage and grief, and Jarnbjorn was anything but inconspicuous.

“Barricade the doors!” Thor forced out. “No one leaves.”

He saw someone barging through the crowds with such a determination Thor knew instinctively that he was one of the Crow’s men. He shouldered his way over, lunging and grabbing him by the throat. The vanr kicked at him, by Thor slammed him into the floor by the throat. “Who else is working with you?” he roared.

“That isn’t your concern, _jötunn lover_.”

Thor punched him in the gut and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, hauling him through the people. The main hall stretched before him, packed wall-to-wall with people. Thor was pleased to see that the doors were closed, barred shut with heavy blocks of iron-banded oak.

He threw the vanr against the doors. Something cracked at the impact, and the vanr screamed. Thor saw a sliver of bone poking from the vanr’s calf, but he didn’t care. He strode up to him and hooked the vanr around the neck with the blunt under-curve of Jarnbjorn’s blade. “Who — is — working — with — _you_?” Thor shouted in his face, pressing the vanr back against the door harder with every word. “ _Answer me!_ ”

The vanr didn’t say a word. His hands came up to the blade, cutting his fingers on the sharp edge as he tried to pry himself away from it.

“I said — _answer me_!”

“And I should answer to you?” the vanr whispered. “Demands the ás who has brotherhood with a _frost giant_?”

“Says the vanr,” Thor spat, “whose master killed the realm’s only princess.”

Several behind him gasped in shock, but Thor ignored them, dragging the vanr up the door’s surface with Jarnbjorn.

“You killed her,” Thor said, the words coming to his mouth as natural as anything, “and then accuse me of lying about my brother whose death lies on my shoulders? Have you no _honour_? No _shame_?” Thor knew too he was crying — he could feel the tears running down his cheeks, and he leant closer to the vanr, close enough to breathe into his face, “You who killed my cousin for _nothing_. For a _rumour_ ….”

The vanr moved, and Thor only saw the shine of the knife before it sunk through the chinks of his armour. He roared, dropping Jarnbjorn and stumbling back. Pain lanced from the wound, and the vanr wriggled away from the door, determination shining in his eyes as he reached for the bottom-most oak beam. But it was useless — there were half a dozen of them climbing the doors, held down by enchantment, sheer weight, and mechanics. Thor reached for Jarnbjorn. He stepped forward, swinging the axe with as much force as he could.

The vanr was cleaved in two from shoulder to hip. Thor fell against the door next to the vanr’s body as someone screamed. He ignored it, grimacing as he pulled himself to his feet — one wound would not keep him down. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. Blood came away from his face — he didn’t know if it was his or Thrúdr’s or someone else’s. He didn’t care much to find out, either.

“All the doors will remain closed,” he rasped. “No one leaves until every single individual who had a hand in this tonight is captured.”

* * *

#

* * *

Healers were buzzing around Thor as they dressed his side and several other smaller injuries he had sustained. The knife hadn’t been laced with poison, he was told, and was nothing much more than a sharpened bit of metal. But Thor wasn’t interested in their diagnoses — he wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep, to forget about the runners and the Crow and Thrúdr … about the baby.

He was stuck in the healing rooms again, and he couldn’t leave. He’d tried to several times, but he’d been forced back down, had been threatened with restraints if he were to try again, so he didn’t. He sat on the edge of a gunnery with his left arm high above his head so the healer could get to the stab wound. He didn’t care that his arm was numb, either.

The healing wards were full of the injured, and Thor’s eyes kept darting around the room, following healers as they rushed back and forth between the dozens upon dozens of patients to help them. It was terrible to watch.

Because Thor knew others were helping with the dead that lined the hallways, and that a half-dozen had been summoned to the royal wing to deal with the royal family.

Thor had learnt that Thrúdr hadn’t been the only one to have suffered. The report Thor had listened to told of how a group of rebels had broken into all the royal’s chambers as they had done Thor’s and Sif’s, taking all of them hostage. There had been a struggle, and in that struggle, Thrúdr had been taken away, and Höthr had tried to go after her. His captor, in an attempt to stop both him and Baldr causing anymore disarray, had taken a knife to Höthr’s eyes.

“Your cousin … he has been blinded, Highness,” the page said, his voice trembling. “The healers say that there’s almost no hope of restoring his sight — his eyes were … they were destroyed.”

Thor nodded, numb. “What of Thrúdr? Where is she now?”

“I know not, Your Highness.”

“The Lady Sif?”

“Safe, Highness.” The page bobbed his head somewhat awkwardly. “Her Majesty has bid you to her side too.”

Thor nodded again. “Gethila,” he called, and the healer came bustling over at once. “I need to leave.”

Her face grew stern. “Highness, I have told you—”

“Queen Sigrítha has summoned me.” He gestured towards the page.

“I … Very well; I obey my queen.”

Gethila insisted that she recheck Thor’s bandages again before he slipped on a shirt. He noticed too as he brought it over his head the undersides of his nails were still caked with blood. He looked away as soon as he saw.

The halls were crawling with people, and hardly anyone noticed Thor walking quietly along the corridors, head bowed and hair hiding his face. He walked unseeingly, following the sounds of the pageboy’s steps as they headed towards the royal wing. Thor nearly walked into the temporary solar’s doors when they stopped outside, and he blinked groggily, looking up and squinting at them.

The page looked over his shoulder before he opened the doors wide. “His Royal Highness, Prince Thor, Son of Odin Allfather.”

A prince was the last thing Thor felt like as he came stiffly into the solar. Sigrítha and a cluster of politicians were inside, and whatever they had been murmuring to her had long since died down when Thor crossed the threshold.

Sigrítha lifted her chin; she’d been crying, Thor saw. “Go,” she said to the politicians, and they left.

Thor lowered his head. “Queen Sigrítha.”

“What happened?” she said before he could get the words out. “I want to know what happened to my daughter.”

Thor licked his lips. Sigrítha hadn’t offered him a seat, and he wanted to sit. He felt exhausted, bone tired, and he knew he would feel more so as he told her what had happened. “I …”

Thor proceeded to tell her of how he had Sif had woken up — omitting the conversation they had had — and the assassins that had snuck up to them. He told her of their flight through the corridors and how he and Sif had split up, how he had continued on and had, on his flight to the royal wing, come across Þruðr and the Crow.

He told her less steadily of the deal the Crow had offered. And the aftermath.

“I couldn’t take it,” he said to the floor. “You know I couldn’t. I couldn’t give in to his demands — he’d have won if I had. And I couldn’t for Loki’s sake. For the sake of the realms and the peace….”

Sigrítha was a silent figure. She held herself in a composed manner, despite how red her eyes were. “You sacrificed my daughter’s life, my son’s sight,” she whispered, “for a monster? _Their lives for his?_ ”

Thor looked up at her. He felt like a child cowed for wrongdoing. “Loki—”

“Get out,” Sigrítha snarled into the space. “Get out of my house. Get out of my _realm_. I will not see you!”

Thor lowered his eyes once more. “Queen Sigrítha.” He bowed and backed out into the corridor. The doors closed. He stood outside the doors for a second, shiny and bright and polished to gleam, and thought of the grief that lay behind them. Then he turned on his heel and walked back to his and Sif’s chambers.

The bodies were gone, and the blood cleaned. Sif was waiting for him, biting her thumbnail and pacing back and forth. She had a cut on the underside of her jaw, already halfway healed, and there were still spatters of blood on her clothes and armour.

She looked up when he entered, stopping in her pacing. “Thor?”

“You’ve heard, have you not?” he asked, whisper soft.

She nodded, her eyes darting to the blood under his nails. “I’m sorry, Thor.”

He held out a hand for her to take. She did, and he brought her back to him, brought her to his chest and buried his face into her shoulder. He could feel her shaking against him as he did against her — the both of them lost to grief and the horrors of the battle.

They fell back onto the mattress, merely laying opposite to the other, neither speaking nor looking into each other’s eyes. Thor’s fingers trailed along the skin of Sif’s upper arms, taking comfort in the warm of the blood beneath. Fat tears fell into his hair.

The morning came, but still they did not move. But as the sun climbed to its noon position, there came a knock on the door, and finally they stirred.

“Come in,” Thor said heavily, sitting up.

Hœnir came in, and Sif stood, bowing to him. “Highness,” she said.

“My lady.”

Hœnir looked haggard. His auburn hair was in tangles, matted with blood and the ends singed.  He still wore armour, Thor noticed, and it too was covered with dry blood.

“How are you?” Thor asked hollowly. “How is Höthr? I haven’t seen him—”

“Höthr’s asleep, as is Baldr,” Hœnir said. “It’s for the best.”

Thor dipped his head. “Uncle, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Hœnir squared his shoulders. “I know what was said between you and Sigrítha,” he said heavily. “I’ve talked to her, and she has permitted you to stay for the funeral.”

“Thank you—”

“Then I’ll have to insist that you leave.”

“Y … you too?” Thor croaked.

“She was my daughter,” Hœnir said, “as you are my blood. After the funeral, let us have time to mourn, nephew. Privately.”

“I understand,” Thor said thickly. He bowed to Hœnir. He thought then of Thrúdr’s last words, and he was on the cusp of telling them to Hœnir, but he clamped his teeth on his tongue. No — neither he nor Sigrítha needed to hear that now, not when the pain was so fresh. When Hœnir left, he wondered if he would ever tell them.

* * *

#

* * *

An official announcement was made that evenfall from the palace steps, but not the one the Crow had wanted. Thor and Sif didn’t leave their rooms during it, but they heard every word, carried to them through the corridors by magic.

Sigrítha had spoken, telling the common people of the attack, the ones behind it, the information they hoped to spread — and Thor flinched horribly as the truth was stated so _boldly_ to the masses — and Thrúdr’s passing.

But Loki, through Thrúdr’s death, was safe. Thor felt traitorous at the thought, no matter how true it was. The public knew who had killed her, and what the Crow’s agenda had been. Her death had demonised the Crow, and as such, anything he and his supporters said. The rumours were buried deep — when Sigrítha had said Loki was jötunn, the crowd, thinking the accusation the Crow’s words, didn’t believe them. He listened to their shouts, their screams. Thrúdr was a martyr for Loki, and Thor hated it.

His mind was a storm of _ifs_. If he hadn’t sent the ambassadors; if he hadn’t been so pig-headed, so stubborn; if he had listened to Loki when he had travelled to Jötunheimr; if he had listened to his parents; if he hadn’t taken Loki’s bait and gone to Jötunheimr in the first place…. So many mistakes made on his account….

The _ifs_ followed him as he dressed for the funeral, as he walked through the palace to the steps and the carriages at their feet. He climbed into one, Sif following him, before the door closed and the thing rumbled off to the river. Looking out the window, Thor saw the mourners flocking the streets, dressed in single pieces of dark cloth that covered their figures entirely. Silver lanterns were held aloft in their hands; it cast an eerie atmosphere.

“I hate this,” Sif said quietly next to him. “The Vanir know well how to express solemnity.”

“It feels appropriate, does it not?” Thor asked her.

“Perhaps,” Sif said, “but you cannot deny it makes you feel that much more saddened.”

Thor had to agree with her there.

The riverbank was packed with people. The carriage rattled along the cobblestones and the hard-packed dirt before coming to rest at the steps of the foot of a high platform. It had been constructed throughout the day, and, upon it, stood the royal family. The carriage door was opened, and Thor stepped out, mumbling a thank you to the driver before he and Sif mounted the wooden stairs.

Sigrítha refused to acknowledge their presence as they came up beside them, but Hœnir gave them a nod. Thor looked to Baldr and Höthr standing side-by-side in the platform’s centre. Baldr’s palm was on Höthr’s shoulder, and his other in his twin’s hand. Höthr had no blindfold that Thor could see, but he knew at a glance an illusion had been placed upon his cousin’s face. He looked healthy enough, but there was a certain unfocused look to his eyes, and they were cast into the far distance.

“Cousin?” Höthr whispered.

“Höthr,” Thor replied. “I …”

“Do not say you are sorry,” Höthr said, a hint of bitter resentment clouding his voice. “I’m sick of condolences.”

“I understand,” Thor said. And he did — after Loki’s supposed death, he had wished to plug his ears with wax to escape all the murmurs of sorries.

“Was she brave?” Höthr asked now. “Thrúdr.” From the corner of his eye, Thor saw Sigrítha stir.

“Admirably so. She gave the bastard a fight.”

“Good.”

The gong sounded, and they stopped talking. A hush fell on the crowd too, and through them came the funeral procession, including the Angel of Death. The funerals of the Vanir were almost identical to those in Æsir tradition, so tightly wound were their realms that customs had blurred together. Thor could not help but think of Loki’s funeral as the group made its way through the crowd. And within them was a litter, supported by six of the royal guard.

Thor felt sick as Thrúdr’s tiny body was laid in the boat tied to the quay’s jetty. She looked curled in on herself — nothing more than a wisp of a girl. The make-up that had been applied to her made her look older, and Thor found himself wondering if that was deliberate, to make it easier on everyone to pretend they weren’t burning a child. It didn’t for Thor, nor for anyone else in his family.

The incense on the air was making Thor’s eyes water and his nose sting. Höthr held onto his brother’s shoulder, neck strained forward in an effort to _see_.

 _But he won’t. Ever again_ , Thor thought. _Because of me._

The Angel of Death stood on the quay, a different one to Asgard’s. As Asgard’s Angel had done at Loki’s funeral, she called forth the items Thrúdr would need in the next world; they were laid out reverently upon the boat. Thor stopped paying attention then. He couldn’t concentrate, and he had difficulty breathing normally. Thor clenched his fists as the boat was pushed out along the river. He felt tears wet his eyes, but he was determined that they not fall. He couldn’t let them fall, for her sake. He’d been her hope for protection, and he’d failed her. He wouldn’t fail her again by weeping. He flinched the boat was set alight. It burst into flame as soon as the arrow made contact with it.

The boat disappeared around the river’s bend, and the crowd, already hushed and sombre, seemed to gain a sense of utter finality. The Vanaheimr royal family stood together for a long while, Sigrítha’s eyes fixed on the river bend, but, eventually, as the Angel finished her lament, Hœnir laid a hand on Sigrítha shoulder and led her away. Thor turned to follow, and the crowds below began to depart.

They’d barely reached the bottom of the steps when Sigrítha said tersely, “Nephew, yours and the Lady Sif’s belongings are ready for departure. They will meet you at the Bifröst site.”

“Thank you,” Thor said. Their carriage pulled up after a few seconds, and they got back inside without time to say farewell to anyone. Then they were off.

The ride was spent in silence. Thor stared at his hands throughout it, and he thought of how he couldn’t keep his fingers together in the right way to stop Thrúdr dying. He hit the seat beneath him in frustration, and would have again if Sif hadn’t closed her hand around his.

“Am I a terrible person?” Thor asked.

“Of course not,” Sif answered. The carriage came to a stop, and the door opened. When they got out, Thor saw that Sigrítha hadn’t been lying — on the centre of Bifröst’s stamp was their meagre pile of luggage. The driver bowed to them before he left.

“But Sif,” Thor said as they picked their way over, “everything that’s happened over the past year has been a consequence for my actions.”

“Thor.” She stood before him, and he looked up at her, shuddering. “You are not a terrible person,” she said gently. “You are … brash. But since Loki was … lost to us, you have _striven_ to fix it. You are a good person, Thor, your heart better than many others can dare to claim.”

“A good heart,” Thor spat. “What’s a heart done for anyone? My brashness has destroyed Loki’s life, taken Thrúdr’s, blinded Höthr, put Yggdrasil on the verge of war … A good heart is worth nothing in the face of _that_.”

“You’re only proving your point all the more,” Sif said. “You _care_. And that is enough to destroy, and to create.” She fell silent, looking at him steadily before asking, “Are you ready?”

“Aye.” Thor turned his eyes skyward. “Heimdallr, when you’re ready.”

They only had to wait a heartbeat before Bifröst descended. It caught the two of them up, carrying them through the space to Asgard. Seconds later, they, and their luggage, had landed.

Heimdallr pulled his sword from the mechanism and said, “Welcome back, my prince, my lady.”

“Heimdallr,” Thor said lowly in greeting.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Heimdallr said. “She was a sweet girl.” He came down the steps and, in a rare display of empathy, clasped Thor by the shoulder. “My condolences, Prince.”

“Thank you, Heimdallr,” Thor said.

“Your father has summoned you,” Heimdallr continued. “He is anxious to hear after you.”

“Then I shall not delay.”

Horses were waiting for them on the Bridge. Like the carriage ride, it was a miserable trip back along Bifröst’s Bridge, and the wonder and pride that usually stirred Thor’s heart at the sight of Asgard’s spires held nothing for him tonight. A party waited at Asgard’s gates, and they bowed deeply to him and Sif as they came through. Thor saw several windows along the way had candles lit within — for Thrúdr no doubt. It drove the reality of the situation home all the more.

“Is my presence requested by the Allfather also?” he dimly heard Sif saying.

“No, my lady. The king and queen have asked for His Highness alone.”

“I understand.” She touched him on the shoulder as they dismounted outside the palace and said, “Shall I wait for you?”

“You may go where you wish.”

“Then I shall stay. It would feel strange not to do so.”

The halls of Valaskjalf didn’t feel like home. They felt large and empty and from a different time as Thor walked through them, Sif beside him. The shadows were long and deep, and every sound seemed magnified a hundred-fold. Athalrádr greeted them outside of the Allfather’s study, and he inclined his head before turning around and opening the doors.

“His Highness Prince Thor.”

Frigga had her arms around him before Thor could process anything else, and he jumped back, startled, before he realised it was her. He hugged her back, closing his eyes and merely luxuriating in the sense of _home_ and _safety_ she exuded. “Mother,” he croaked.

“My son,” she whispered. “I’m so glad you’re safe.” Thor’s throat stuck as she pulled back to look at him. “Shall I arrange for a sleeping draught to be prepared?”

“The dreamless one?”

“Aye.”

“Yes please.”

Frigga touched his face with the palm of her hand and nodded to Athalrádr. He bowed and left to stand outside with Sif.

Thor looked behind his mother to the desk at the head of the room, where his father sat. There were papers before him, half-signed and still curling into scrolls. Thor swallowed and said, “Father.”

“Thor.”

Odin stood from his chair, and when Thor looked upon him, he didn’t see the Allfather, but his father. He realised he hadn’t seen him as that since Loki had been taken.

“Come here,” Odin said. “I would see you.”

Thor came before him, and Odin gestured to where Mjölnir sat still beside his desk. “Try.”

Thor eyed the hammer warily, but did as his father bid. He stepped forward almost cautiously, and wrapped his fingers around the handle. Mjölnir seemed to shiver at his touch, and she lifted just as easily as she had once done.

“Why?” Thor asked, staring at the hammer. “Why now?”

“I think you know why.”

“I do not feel worthy. I feel sullied — sullied with blood and mistakes and Norns know how much guilt.” He shook. “Father,” he said, “what do I do?”

“Cope,” Odin said. He came down the steps and then, before Thor knew what was happening, his father hugged him. Thor’s breath hitched, and it was a few seconds later that he returned it. Frigga came to them, folding her arms around them both.

“I don’t know what to do,” Thor whispered. “Höthr’s blind and Thrúdr dead because of me.” Mjölnir was like a stone in his hand — unbearably heavy, and part of him wondered _why_ he was able to pick her up once more.

“No,” Frigga said gently. “No, what happened to them were at the actions of insurgents.”

“But I went to Vanaheimr, brought the fighting there,” Thor croaked. “I don’t want to lose any more of my family.”

“None of us do,” Odin said. “So this is what must be done.”


	33. Chapter Twenty-Eight - Traitorous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 02-12-2015**

Loki awoke with a screech of pain. His first wild thought was that he had been stabbed, but as he scrambled at his chest and found no blood, his second was that someone had attacked him with magic. He twisted over in the furs, hacking and spluttering and scrabbling for something to hold onto. His hand found the edge of the bedframe just as Sigyn said, “Loki?”

He could barely force her name from his lips, a half-formed thought in his mind to fork a rune with his fingers to numb the pain, but he couldn’t get his fingers to properly respond.

“Loki?” Sigyn repeated sharply, leaning over him in a protective crouch. “What is it?”

“Hurts,” Loki wheezed. He curled into a ball on his side and shuddered. “It hurts….”

Sigyn’s face fell. “Oblivion….” She shot from the bed and ran to the door, opening it and calling, “Send for Menglöð-Heilari!”

“Why?” he gasped. “Wh … what is this …?”

“A bond has been broken.”

Bond…. He grasped for what scraps of information he knew about bonds, but he couldn’t concentrate through the crushing pain; the only thing Loki could coherently think was, _Please not Thor. It can’t be Thor. Please, please…._

Sigyn came back to him, hugging him tightly just as the door opened. Fárbauti strode into the room, Helblindi running after her.

“Is it Bý?” he asked desperately, looking at Fárbauti.

“No,” Fárbauti responded, crouching down in front of Loki and reaching a hand to his chest. Loki lifted his lip, but he didn’t have the strength of will to fully turn away. He lay instead on his back, panting harshly. Fárbauti furrowed her brow, and she turned to Sigyn and snapped, “Find someone to check on the Ladies Vörnissdóttir, Hloajardóttir, and Fyrnisdóttir. Quickly!”

Sigyn swallowed and left, and Loki wanted to yell at Fárbauti because _how dare she treat her like that_ , but any kind of noise he made was drowned with a louder sound of pain. “G-get—”

He must have fallen unconscious for a few seconds, maybe even for as long as half a minute, because the next thing he was aware of was Fárbauti’s hand on his chest, her fingers glowing with magic. His breathing was fast, and he was on the cusp of crying out when there were hands either side of his head and a rough voice saying, “Loki, stop. Breathe.”

He looked to the owner, and his fright grew when he saw Laufey’s face a bare foot from his own. Laufey made a noise of frustration and said again, “ _Breathe_.”

Loki pulled in a breath in instinctive obedience and stared unblinkingly into Laufey’s eyes. He forgot to hate the jötunn as he gripped his wrist, the grounding of the touch far more sought after than a screaming match full of words barbed with rage. He had subconsciously started to match his breathing with the king’s when the door opened yet again. A she-jötunn he didn’t immediately recognise came in, hurrying to his bedside just as Laufey and Fárbauti moved aside for her.

“My prince,” she said, and Loki was surprised that she spoke broken Æsir-ian, “I am Menglöð, and I will helping you. I need you listening and doing as I said, Highness, yes?”

“Y-yes.” Loki too gave a small, jerky nod. He screwed his eyes shut as a fresh wave of pain wracked his chest.

“Very good, Highness. I need you drinking this. It will helping, I promise.”

She held what he thought was a chalice beneath his nose, and as the smell of marmennill blood hit him, he lashed out, blind. His hand hit something, and the scent vanished as what he’d struck went flying. “No!” he bellowed. “I’m not drinking that shit again!”

“It will—”

“ _Keep that away from me._ ”

“Loki — calm,” Fárbauti said earnestly in the Allspeak. “She’s trying to help.”

“I’m not … not drinking it again.” He’d rather suffer the pain than seek relief through the blood. He didn’t think he’d be able to bear it, to have the visions thrust upon him again, to watch Útgarðar fall and Býleistr crushed and Odin take him—

“Majesty.” Sigyn’s voice. Loki tried to push himself upright, to concentrate on the Jötunn words, but all the strength seemed to have left him when he’d smacked the marmennill blood away. “No one here has passed, my queen-consort.”

“Then … then something has happened elsewhere.”

“Like in Asgard?” Helblindi asked in a small voice. “Did Loki make bonds with the Asgardians?”

“It seems so, my love,” Fárbauti replied. “Menglöð, can you do anything?”

“I can put him to sleep.”

As much as Loki hated them talking over him as if he were nothing more than a slab of meat waiting to be carved, the idea of sleeping the pain off was appealing. There was something else by his mouth now — he identified it as the sweet sleeping draught he’d been forced to swallow on his first night here. It was better than the marmennill blood, and he put up less of a fight towards it. It went down, and Loki soon found himself drifting under.

* * *

#

* * *

The immediate shock of the pain wasn’t a surprise when Loki woke. It still hurt fiercely, but he had time to bite back a cry. He rolled over onto his side, curling into a ball and, for once, uncaring for the steel-hard press of the base of one of his horns into his temple.

“Highness?”

The broken Æsir-ian. Menglöð.

“Where am I?” he asked through pained breaths in the same language.

“Your bed, Highness. The middle of the day.”

“How long was I asleep?”

“Almost turning of the realm, Highness.” Menglöð moved into his field of vision, and he lifted his eyes to her face.

He recognised her now — he’d seen her a couple of times around the castle. The she-jötunn’s round face, with an abnormally wide jaw, was lined with age. Her hair was turning silver, and she was lean, her skin leathery. The contrast of her body and face shape was odd if nothing else.

Loki moved his gaze past her. As she’d said, he was still in his chambers, but they were the only two there. Where was Sigyn? Had she moved back to her previous rooms whilst he’d thrashed and howled like a madman—?

 _The bond_ , he thought furiously. _Someone’s dead, but who? Who?_

 _Not Thor. I know it’s not him. Or Fr— Mother. Not her._ He knew it wasn’t them, because a world without them wasn’t a world at all. They had to be alive. As he lay there, he wracked his mind for answers as to who it could have possibly been. Angrboða was well, Sigyn had said so, and like Hel he would have formed some kind of positive emotional attachment to either Thorn of Haera. Odin, perhaps? Some part of him hoped it was.

He was distracted when he caught the sound of a high string of laughter, and he frowned. Menglöð must have seen it, for she said, “The winter is end, Highness. There is preparations for the Return of the Light. Spring.”

 _I’d be free to leave the city_ , Loki thought bleakly. _Fárbauti’s sentence had me here until the end of winter._ It was frightening how much his heart didn’t immediately set on him running, but that was soon squashed out as the fear propelled him to run even more.

_And Sigyn? What of her?_

“It’s still a month away, Highness, and I suggesting during that time you do not doing anything too … ah … _bothering_. The sudden tear of bonds like you experience is slow recovery, and it is time of weakness for those affected — that is sure as the moons. I do … umh, suggesting at least some drink of marmennill blood to help the pain.”

“I’m not drinking it,” Loki said flatly.

“I … if you wish, Highness.” She paused for a beat. “If you should changing your mind, then I will be happy to give some.”

Loki knew he wouldn’t change his mind. He’d never drink that stuff again if he could help it. He curled further into himself, wanting Sigyn. He wanted to find her, but he simply didn’t have the strength to get up and do it, to find her bed and slide under the covers with her, to fit himself to the curve of her back and brush that one errant strand of hair away that always seemed to lodge itself in the corner of her mouth. Norns, he wanted his chest to stop _fucking hurting_.

Menglöð was looking at him, her head tilted quizzically to the side. “Highness, if you doing not mind my ask, how long has it been since you shedding your horns?”

Loki flinched. Was she _joking_? Would he have to regrow them every year like red deer? At the widening of his eyes, Menglöð corrected herself. “Since you shifting to another form that did not have your horns, my prince.”

“Why?” Loki asked, wary.

“You are lying on them,” Menglöð said simply. “They are setting.”

Loki knew exactly when he’d last shifted: It had been the night Haera had kissed him, when he’d gone into the hall to lay false rumours with the she-jötnar. He hadn’t shifted afterwards for the turn of the weather. Nearly four months ago. He wished he didn’t know that.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki, as Menglöð had suggested, didn’t do much for the next few weeks, and he hated it. He hated being confined against his wishes, for whilst his body didn’t want to do much other than be as still as possible to work through the pain — because Menglöð was right: he felt physically and mentally weaker — his mind was elsewhere. He thought about where he wanted to be. The seasonal cycles were slightly out of sync with Asgard’s, perhaps a month or two ahead. In Asgard now, the outer fields would be brushed with snow — not much, four or five centimetres at most, for Asgard was a realm of summer. He’d enjoyed roaming those fields, sometimes on foot and sometimes on horseback, and most of the time with Thor. But as soon as thoughts of Thor came to Loki’s mind, he banished them viciously.

 _He’s not dead. He’s_ not _._

The thoughts were nothing more than self-reassurances. Fervent wishes swimming within the madness of fever dreams.

But the breaking of the bond was as good an excuse as he would get for not attending his duties. But what it did mean was that he, like the reclaiming celebrations and the Nóttvísa, didn’t see the festival until it was upon him.

Luckily, this one only lasted a day and night.

“What’s going to happen?” he asked Sigyn as she helped him put his ceremonial armour on. She was the only one he really lowered his barriers for. She had promised not to judge him. He had a vague idea of what was to happen tonight, but he’d spent the last weeks in such a stupor of pain much of what he’d been told had floated out of his mind. He was reluctant to go, but he couldn’t be sequestered away for much longer; there would be questions asked, and Loki feared he might go mad if he didn’t step foot outside.

“Much of the night will be spent in the colosseum,” Sigyn said, holding one of the back plates in place. “There will be mock fights and many _hólmgangar_ , maybe even some who will challenge the king, the queen-consort, and even you.”

Loki hoped no one would. He had a reputation for quick and brutal fighting — Æsir fighting — and he hoped that reputation enough to keep him safe.

“At the closing of the fighting, Skrýmir-Goði will give a ritual blessing for the coming season, and then a feast will end the night.”

Loki nodded. “Will you be challenged to _hólmganga_?”

“Not likely,” Sigyn said. “I have already fought my way to your side. There will be no further need to stake my claim to you.”

“You’re the one who’s claimed me?” Loki asked coltishly, turning to her and looking her up and down.

“Mm.” Her fingers _just_ brushed a love bite she had left of his hipbone, and Loki twitched at the electric touch.

“I think we’ve both claimed the other,” he said at last. He’d left his own fair share of marks on her, and there were hints of his own scent clinging to her hair and skin, as hers smothered his own body.

“Fine.” She kissed him on the jaw and said against his skin, “I’d love to stay here, but unfortunately we’re running late as it is.”

Loki did get to helping Sigyn with her newly commissioned armour some minutes later, before he led the way out of the solar.

“There are mounts ready to take Your Highness and the Lady Bláinsdóttir to the colosseum,” a page said when they closed the solar door. Loki made a noise of recognition, and the reluctance to go started pulling at him again. Sigyn slipped her hand into his and squeezed it. An encouragement.

They set off, slowly at first, but they started to gain speed the further to the castle’s entrance they came. The entrance hall was decorated with glittering frost filigree lines. They hung like icicles from the ceiling, dripping twenty feet long. Little creatures that reminded Loki of furry hummingbirds flitted through them.

“What are they?” Loki murmured, pointing at one.

“ _Snjór flugmaður_ ,” Sigyn said. “Snow fliers.”

“Very imaginative.”

“Does Asgard not have animals literally named?” Sigyn asked, quirking an eyebrow at him as they walked across the hall.

“Too many,” Loki said. “Blackbirds, grey wolves, rainbow fish—”

“ _Rainbow fish?_ And you call our animal names unimaginative.”

Loki conceded her point.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki didn’t think it coincidence his káshta wasn’t treating him well; the last time Loki had seen the beast, it had gotten an arrow in its shoulder. It took a little more handling than it had once done to follow Sigyn on her own mount, Loki cursing it none too quietly as it came to a rather abrupt stop underneath the colosseum’s main archway. Crowds lined the streets leading to the colosseum, singing, dancing, laughing, talking jovially. Loki saw some of the _goðar_ moving amongst them, thuribles on long staffs held over the heads of the crowd, smoke drifting from the gaps. Hands reached up for them, children on parents’ shoulders lifting them high in an effort to touch.

“The incense is cleansing,” Sigyn whispered to him as she dismounted. She led him over to a thurible mounted at archway entrance, cupping the smoke in her hands and passing it over her head. Loki caught a whiff of it, and it smelt sharp. He wondered what was being burnt within them — it wasn’t any kind of herb he was aware of.

“Highness!”

Loki turned. A messenger jogged towards them, and he stopped before Loki, bowing lowly. “The king bids you to go to the royal box at once.”

But Loki was moving past him before he even finished, the summons needling at him. Behind him, Sigyn touched the messenger briefly on the shoulder in thanks, and then followed Loki. She hooked her arm within his, but didn’t make a comment about his behaviour as they made their way up the empty staircases — the colosseum had yet to open its gates to the public.

“Why do you always take so _long_?” Helblindi moaned at him when he and Sigyn came into the box. Helblindi was sprawled upside-down on the front bench on the box, padded with long-worn out velvet traded in the days before the war. He rolled over onto his stomach, looking at Loki with tired eyes and smiling shyly at Sigyn. “Hello, Sig.”

“Helblindi-Prince.”

“My king,” Loki said to Laufey, who was leaning on the balustrade and looking over the arena floor. Laufey flicked him a glance from the corner of his eye, not saying anything. The king was dressed in his best, as was Fárbauti next to him.

She wore the same white fur cloak she had when Loki had sworn his oaths, and she said, “Good eventide, Loki.”

He considered ignoring her for half a second, but he wasn’t feeling petty enough tonight to lower himself to such base things. He inclined his head to her and said, “My queen-consort,” before seating himself on the backbench in the box, massaging his aching chest. It was frustrating how the ache persisted even four weeks later.

Sigyn greeted the king and queen-consort before seating herself next to Loki, pulling a fur from the neatly folded pile at the end of the bench around their shoulders. Loki leant against her, but watched Laufey and Fárbauti from the corner of his eye. He was ready to lean back if they chanced a glance behind.

It was another few minutes before the highborn filed into their seats, the lowborn after them, and then the public. Loki hadn’t seen the colosseum so full since the night of Hrimgerd’s execution. He gave the whole fur to Sigyn when they came in, and he leant his elbows on his knees, closing his eyes and keeping a hand to his chest. He didn’t realise the night’s festivities had started until Sigyn squeezed his knee, and Loki got to his feet as Laufey delivered an address. Loki didn’t listen to it.

The crowd roared when the first jötnar came into the colosseum. They weren’t fighters, Loki saw, but actors in crudely constructed costumes. There were perhaps a half dozen of them, cavorting around and making arses of themselves to a script without much plot, but again, Loki wasn’t paying them much attention. But Sigyn was laughing, tears streaming down her face with the force of it, as was Helblindi. Fárbauti was chuckling, and even Laufey had cracked a smile.

The actors jogged out of the arena, throwing a few last insults at each other — one of which Loki caught was, “Your hair — is it not made of sea jötunn armpit shavings?” — before the crowds began to stamp their feet in a drumbeat rhythm, a sound that throbbed in the air like the Night Song had done.

“The _hólmganga_ are to be fought,” Sigyn whispered in Loki’s ear. “The ones disputing swathes of territory. _Hólmgangar_ between _gräfs_ and _jarls_ and even sovereigns against those who think themselves better.”

“But the other monumental ones are fought throughout the year,” Loki murmured back, confused. “Why fight now?”

“Because the land is ready to bring forth new life for the summer seasons,” Sigyn replied. “New life for a new ruler.”

“Children of the Ice!” Thjazi roared from the podium on the other side of the colosseum, and the crowds quietened a little. “The light is returning, the life is returning. New power may be given this night. Are there any who are brave enough, willing enough, to challenge your leaders to _hólmganga_?!”

There were more shouts than Loki had thought there would be, male and female both. Some of the challengers cried the names of those they wished to battle with, but Loki didn’t hear any of the names of his blood kin, or his own. Sigyn had said it’d be unlikely that he’d have to fight, and he’d rather keep it that way.

“I challenge Galar-Gräfin!” someone shrieked above the others, and eyes locked onto the speaker.

“And why?” Thjazi asked.

“She is disorganised! Unfair!” the jötunn bellowed, and Loki recognised the name: it was the _gräfin_ whom the disputers had talked of the night Herkir had fought Loki in his own _hólmganga_. “She’s held power for too long, and has grown arrogant and weak!”

“And you think you can do better?”

“Aye!” the jötunn screamed, and Loki heard others answering the cry, calling for the _hólmganga_ to take place.

But then:

“I challenge Loki Laufeyson.”

Loki blinked and looked up. He didn’t have to look hard to find who had spoken — every eye in the colosseum had gone to the speaker. He was a tall jötunn, at least a millennium older than Loki, and his head shaved. A warrior, a highborn.

Galar-Gräfin was forgotten in an instant.

“And what does His Highness Prince Loki Laufeyson answer?” Thjazi called.

Laufey and Fárbauti were looking at him, Helblindi too, and worry was etched on their faces, Loki saw with some surprise. He narrowed his eyes and stood, refusing to look at Sigyn and what her reaction would be. “I accept.”

The crowd’s roar reignited, and Loki leant forward with his knuckles pressed to the balustrade, baring his teeth at the jötunn below him. When the highborn left the stands to make his way to the arena floor, Loki turned to do the same.

Sigyn caught his arm as he walked past her, and she rose to her feet at once, her eyes swimming with worry. “Why did you accept?”

“You would have had me refuse?”

“You had every right to. He is beneath you in rank.”

“But yet high enough in rank that I would have lost face by ignoring him.” He took her hand in his and said lowly, “I swear I will beat him into the ground. I will win. If I’m stuck in this realm, then I have to secure my position.”

Sigyn closed her mouth and looked to the floor, nodding in resignation. “I will come with you,” she said. “I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

#

* * *

Loki didn’t react to the portcullis dropping behind him fifteen minutes later. He stared unblinkingly at the highborn in front of him, who rolled his shoulders and roared in his arrogance to the crowd. His name was Spretting, Loki had been told, an older brother to one of the she-jötnar who had fought for his attention. Spretting was a palm-width taller than Loki, and Loki hated how, when they came face to face, he had to look up into the jötunn’s eyes.

Unlike his last _hólmganga_ , Thjazi stood in the ring with them. He was a few feet away, and he called, “This _hólmganga_ between his Royal Highness, Prince Loki Laufeyson, second born to King Laufey Náljarson of Jötunheimr, and Spretting Gumajarson, fourth born to Lady Guma Lutsdóttir, has been recognised by both parties. The official rules apply to this _hólmganga_ and have not been subjected to change. Speak now if there are any objections.”

No one said anything, so it began.

Unlike his _hólmganga_ with Herkir, this one started fast and dirty.

Spretting swiped at him, once, twice, thrice in quick succession, before aiming a kick at Loki’s sternum and forcing him to retreat several hasty steps. Loki ducked and dodged the blows, before digging his toes into the ice and catching Spretting’s next strike on his leather bracers. The impacted jarred his shoulder and ripped into the leather, but Loki was unharmed. He used the block to advance, gaining ground back at he threw punches at Spretting’s face and chest, but they were all turned aside. When Spretting kicked low at Loki’s legs, he leapt over them, aiming his own kick at Spretting’s head in the air, awing the crowd when he touched lightly on the balls of his feet and flipped up and around Spretting’s next swipe like a dancer.

Over the next few minutes, each of them landed at least half a dozen hits on the other — Spretting several cuts along his arms and chest, and a shallow one on his neck, and Loki a wound on his back.

Everything was going well, Loki pressing the advantage, cornering Spretting to finish him off—

And then Loki stumbled, twisting his ankle as pain hammered in his chest from the exertion. He heard the crowd pull in a breath as he scrambled back to his feet, bracing himself as Spretting threw himself at him. The impact hurt, pulling at the ache in his chest, and Loki grit his teeth. His weakened ankle slipped under him again, and suddenly Loki was falling. The impact with the ice hurt, and the crowd shrieked. From the corner of his eye, Loki saw Helblindi at the edge of the royal box, knuckles white as he clutched at the balustrade’s pillars.

Spretting seemed just as surprised as Loki, but the confusion lasted for a second before he acted. One of his hands wrapped around Loki’s throat, and the other around the base of a horn. Then, he started to pull on it. Agony lanced from Loki’s head, and he tried to yell, his arms trapped beneath his body, legs equally caught. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, and pain held him at his throat and head and back and chest and Norns—

He felt something at the horn’s base crack, and he could feel the magic at his fingertips, the ice too, and knew he could end it all within a heartbeat, seize the advantage once more. But years of Æsir honour had beaten the instinct back, and he instead lunged out with his teeth in desperation. They sunk into the flesh of Spretting’s wrist, and the jötunn howled. Loki let go, heaving in a breath as he got an elbow under himself, pushing himself up and away from Spretting. He spat out the mouthful of flesh he had ripped from the jötunn’s wrist. The crowd had fallen silent as Loki sprung at Spretting once again, catching him around the middle and putting him onto his back this time.

“Yield,” he spat as held his claws near Spretting’s eyes and throat. Spretting tried to move, but Loki snarled, not daring to take another chance of Spretting overpowering him. He dug his claws into the skin of Spretting’s throat, perilously close to the major artery. “ _Yield._ ”

Spretting stilled, before he tilted his head back willingly to display his jugular. “I yield,” he whispered.

Loki had the passing thought of killing the jötunn then and there, damn the rules and traditions. He had been humiliated, almost uncrowned. But there was a look, a _daring_ in Spretting’s eyes that urged Loki to act on his impulse, and it was that of all things that made Loki stand. If Spretting wanted Loki to kill him to make him look bad, then damn him. Loki was a creature of spite. But if the jötunn was foolish enough to come near Loki again, then he wouldn’t hesitate to gut him.

Blood dripped from his back as he made his way to the arena’s gate, and as soon as the portcullis clanged shut behind him, Sigyn was there and pulling him into her arms.

“Oblivion, you scared me,” she whispered.

“I’m fine,” Loki murmured softly, holding her tightly. “I’m well.”

“Loki!”

Loki raised his eyes. Helblindi was sprinting down the corridor, and, when he reached them, came around Loki’s back and hugged him tightly. “I thought you were going to die,” he choked out. “Why didn’t you fight like you normally do? You could have defeated him easily!”

Loki didn’t want to admit to the weakness the breaking bond had imposed upon him, but he was sure Helblindi knew why anyway, that the rhetorical question had come to his lips for his worry.

“I hate you so much,” Helblindi whispered without any kind of heat. “Don’t do that again….”

“I don’t want to,” Loki assured him. “Hey.” He crouched down in front of Helblindi, lifting his chin with a finger so they were looking at each other eye-to-eye. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Is it because of the bond?” Helblindi asked quietly.

“Aye.”

Another cheer when up in the colosseum, distant and muffled in the corridor’s belly, and Helblindi said, “Sire and Dam are waiting for us.”

They started to trudge back, Loki leaning heavily on Sigyn. His ankle was painful, his horn and throat too, and he wanted to tend to them.

“Highness?”

Sigyn stopped more in surprise than anything else. Thorn was waiting at the turn of the corridor. She cut a surprisingly lonely figure, standing there with her shoulders hunched and eyes downturned. Loki tilted his head, puzzled with what she wanted.

“Can I help you, Lady Fyrnisdóttir?” he asked diplomatically.

“I simply want to congratulate you,” Thorn said with a self-depreciative shrug; Sigyn’s fingers dug into Loki’s skin hard enough he had to fight back a wince. “It was a … breath-taking fight.”

“That’s one way to describe it,” Loki said in wary agreement.

“How are your injuries?”

“Nothing; they’ll be gone soon.”

“I’m glad you’re well.” And then, to everyone’s shock, Thorn stepped in front of Loki and pulled him in for a kiss.

Loki barely had the time to think, _What is with these she-jötnar and their impromptu kissing?_ before Thorn pulled back. The kiss had lasted bare seconds, but it had been long enough for her to gently swipe her tongue over his lips and into the front of his mouth.

“I hope you forgive me that, my prince,” she said. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while, but there hasn’t been a chance before now.”

“Do not touch me again,” Loki said stiffly, pulling Sigyn to his side and heading past Thorn. He didn’t look back at her; he could still taste her on his lips and teeth — sharp and herb bitter. He shuddered and barked for someone to bring him water.

“Is that normal?” he asked Sigyn.

“No,” Sigyn said, and there was a tight-lipped quality to her voice. “That was desperation.”

* * *

#

* * *

Loki left early to see Menglöð. She dressed his wounds, declaring them shallow enough to not be in any need of awkward bandages around his chest, and, after examining his horns to assert no permanent damage had been done, left him free to go to the dawn feast.

“How is the bo—?”

“I don’t want any marmennill blood,” Loki said before she could get the word out. “Goodnight, Menglöð-Heilari.”

The healing rooms were in a tower some minutes’ walk away from the great hall in which the dawn feast was being held. Loki entered through the antechamber to find the thing already in full swing. Music drifted from a corner, all but drowned by the chatter and laughter ringing from the tables. He recognised a few faces as he made his way to his own seat, including Herkir sat awkwardly into a chair near a corner of the room. He squeezed Sigyn’s shoulder as he slid into the seat beside her.

“Are you well?” she asked, nuzzling her nose into his cheek.

“Yes,” Loki said. “Have I missed much?”

“No,” she replied absently. She gestured to the food spread along the table — beautiful cuts of bloody meat from rare and expensive game, fish, some little plants. “You should eat something, get your strength back.” Then she stood up and kissed his cheek where her nose had been. “My sire is seated on the floor. I’ll be back in a minute; I wish to speak with him.”

“Take all the time you need,” Loki said.

“Make sure you eat something.”

“Of course.” He grabbed the first thing his hand came to, which happened to be a tray of oysters. He set to opening one as Sigyn moved away, smiling at those who stopped her for a quick word. Loki was silent, and he ate a couple of oysters for something to do. Helblindi was seated on the other side of Laufey and Fárbauti, who were chatting to each other, Laufey picking something from between his teeth with a bone. Loki wondered if this is what they had been like before he’d come back into their lives. Probably. Another oyster went down so he didn’t have to think on it. It wasn’t as if he particularly cared.

Loki felt a little sick, hardly surprising after everything that had happened that night, he thought; the oysters too hadn’t helped, and they sloshed around unpleasantly in his stomach. He still took another from the tray, closing his eyes and trying to focus on something other than his stomach.

“His Highness looks like shit.”

Loki cracked open an eye and found Angrboða standing in front of him. He felt like he hadn’t seen her since his brief glimpse of her at the Nóttvísa.

“Who’d’ve thought you of all people would’ve almost been beaten in _hólmganga_?” she continued. “You showed so much promise for them before.”

“I know what you meant about breaking bonds now,” he said sullenly. “It hurts.”

Angrboða took the change of subject without the blink of an eye. “That it does.” She came and sat herself beside him, reaching into the oyster bowl and quickly cracking one of the shells open with her claws. “You know who?”

Loki shook his head.

“Worried about Thor?”

Loki didn’t answer her, only cracked open his own oyster.

Angrboða grunted. “Thought so. But considering how you’re reacting, I’m sure it’s not Thor, or Odin or his wife. You’d still be bed ridden if it was one of them.”

“You think I still care for Odin?” Loki asked heatedly. “You’re mistaken, Lady Vörnissdóttir.”

“So you’ve _always_ hated him?” she asked, tipping the oyster carcass around and around its shell. “It takes more than eight months for a bond to dissolve.”

“You still dare presume to know so much about me?” Loki said more in jest than anything else.

She brought the shell to her lips, ate the carcass, and, once she swallowed, said, “I’ve been right so far, haven’t I?” She tilted her head towards Sigyn and said quietly, “She’s good for you. You’ve changed since that dawn on the balcony — drastically.”

His stomach turned unpleasantly, and he breathed in deeply through his nose, putting his still uneaten oyster down. He hardly noticed Angrboða take it coyly from where it sat as he stood. He had to grab the edge of the table to pull himself fully upright, leaning for a second on his hands and breathing deeply.

“Loki?” Angrboða asked.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He really felt sick. He wanted to go to the privy, in case he did throw up. But as soon as he took a few steps forward, a pain _jabbed_ at him. He sucked in a breath in surprise, and his legs shook. Blood pounded in his head, and some of the jötnar along the hall looked at him. Loki shook his head to clear it. He was fine. Fine….

“Highness?” one of the highborn closest to him asked, but Loki waved a hand to silence their concerns. But then there was another twist in his gut, and Loki barely choked down his shout. Tremors wracked him. And then he knew what was wrong.

 _Norns_ , he realised, horrified.

Fire burned in his stomach. Loki suddenly fell to a knee in the middle of the dais, dry heaving and retching and his hand flew to his throat. Eyes turned to him, conversations died, and the music stopped just as the comprehension of what was happening to him dawned on them all.

_Poison._

And then, as if his collapse had been a signal, the hall erupted into chaos.

Loki saw Herkir rise from his seat and stab his neighbour in the throat with a dagger, and across the hall, saw the page who had fetched him and Sigyn that evening be struck down by a she-jötunn. Howls permeated the hall, confusion gripped the attacked, and many who were killed or injured were so still in their seats.

Fárbauti was out of her seat at once, vaulting over the table. Helblindi was frozen, clutching at the table, and his eyes wide with fear. Laufey shot from his place as well, and he too sprung over the table with a roar.

 _A plan_ , Loki thought. _There’s more to this than just killing me._

Loki saw through watering eyes one of Laufey’s inner circle, seated three places from Helblindi, lunge for him. A surge of fury rose within Loki. Before he could even register it, he pushed aside the pain in his gut and traversed the space just as the highborn punched Helblindi’s face, his knuckles blooming with spikes of ice. Helblindi was thrown from his seat, surprisingly silent even as the jötunn towered over him, a dagger materialising in his fist. But before he could deliver a killing blow, Loki tackled him.

They fell over the table together, a twist and tangle of flailing limbs and claws and teeth and snarls, before Loki drove two of his uru knives into the jötunn’s chest and a third into his eye, one after the other, howling. _Don’t you lay a_ finger _on him!_ He did his best to ignore the pain from his stomach as he turned to Helblindi, who held a jagged piece of ice in his shaking hand. There were cuts on his cheekbone, blood in his hair, and a scrape on his shoulder where he had hit the floor, but otherwise he appeared unharmed.

“Are … are you … alright?” Loki rasped, and something thick like honey trickled from the corner of his mouth.

Over the other side of the table, Angrboða was tearing at a traitor’s face. Blood laced her fangs and claws as she rolled out of sight, grappling with a highborn man, before Járnsaxa was there, helping her. Sigyn was fighting with someone too, but she was struggling, being pushed to the floor as she kicked at her attacker desperately. But then Haera pulled the she-jötunn off her, hitting her hard enough around the face that teeth sailed from her mouth. She held her hand out for Sigyn and pulled her to her feet, nodded once to her, and then tore off to another fight.

The sight of Sigyn safe was like a trigger to Loki. He hacked hard enough he swore his throat tore, eyes swimming with tears as his throat began to close.

“Loki!” Helblindi screamed as Loki toppled sideways, twitching erratically and breathing hard. His skin was rippling with colour — turning from jötunn blue to Æsir pink to álf silver to eldjötunn black and two dozen other species in between. A desperate, subconscious attempt to find some sort of biology that would push the poison from his system. He shouldn’t have moved, he thought — that had aggravated the poison more. But he couldn’t have stood aside and watched Helblindi die.

“Loki!”

Fárbauti pushed her way through the fighting towards him, and she knelt beside him, her fingers deep in his mouth. Loki instinctively bit down, and the sour tang of jötunn blood coated his tongue, but Fárbauti ignored it. He squeezed his eyes shut, wheezing for air as the fire still ate at his insides. He couldn’t see, couldn’t _breathe_. He opened his mouth, begging for air. Beside him, Fárbauti was muttering under her breath, drawing runes and sigils into his skin that shone with a vibrant green light. His airway opened a little. Then Fárbauti jabbed at his gag reflex, and Loki’s throat convulsed.

He howled as something deep within him jerked. He twisted onto his back, hands at his throat as the thing forced its way up. Black sludge mixed with blood came to his lips.

“That’s it,” Fárbauti was whispering over the fighting. “Come on. You’re doing so well, my love. _Fight_ , Loki.”

The stuff was copious and tasted vile. Loki spat out as much as he could, heaving in lungfuls of air between vomiting episodes. His insides were aching and screaming at him, his stomach clenching and cramping.

“Helblindi, the _hokyah_. Now!”

Helblindi finally jumped into action, snatching up a jug and hurrying over. Loki took it from him with weak, shaking hands, and swallowed a mouthful of the thick drink. It held an earthen taste, and had the consistency of buttermilk. It soothed his burning stomach, and he drank again. Fárbauti had her arms around him, encouraging him to have more, but he couldn’t stop and be idle now. Death still reigned around him, and he twitched in a half-hearted attempt to rise to his feet, to continue fighting.

Guards had surrounded them at some point, but Loki hadn’t noticed, his attention focused entirely on surviving the poison. They were holding several attackers back, killing and killing as the queen-consort saved him.

 _Who’s winning?_ Loki thought desperately. _Are we winning? What about Sigyn?!_

Fárbauti pulled Helblindi into her arms, leaning over the both of them, protecting them with her body. “I will find whoever did this to you, love,” she whispered furiously to Loki, “and I will destroy them, I promise.”

Helblindi wrapped himself bodily around Loki, head tucked into his chest and trembling violently, and Loki did his best to comfort him in return, but all of his thoughts were with Sigyn. Was she safe? Was she hurt? He wanted to scream with frustration at the lack of answers, the lack of understanding and comprehension as to what was happening.

A roar went up amongst the jötnar, and Loki heard one of the guard above them cheer. “The tide’s turned, Your Majesty!” she said to them, victory shining in her eyes.

“Are they dead? Are all of them dead?” Fárbauti snapped.

“Many are, Majesty,” another replied. “There are some who have fled, but they are being hunted—”

A crash and a scream of outrage cut off the guard’s words.

Fárbauti craned her neck, and as the guards parted to allow better access for them to see, Loki looked up weakly. What he saw was carnage. The floor and walls were slicked with blue blood and food, and bodies — young and old — lay everywhere, torn to pieces by teeth and claws, stabbed into bloody, unrecognisable messes. The stench of body fluids and piss and sick and sliced organs overpowered the room. It was like any battlefield Loki had walked in his life, but the closed area made everything seem so much worse, much more _intimate_. Angrboða was still on the dais, covered with gore from head to toe, and Sigyn was likewise coated with blood, standing in the middle of the floor and panting heavily. Loki was relieved to see they were alright.

But it was Laufey who had drawn forth the scream. He was at the far end of the hall, and had someone in his hands, holding them up high against the stonework by the throat. And as she struggled like a half-feral animal, the sapphires in her hair flashed in the light.

Thorn.

She was clawing at Laufey’s hands on her throat, choking out words and kicking at the king, thrashing with all her might, but Laufey held her firm.

“How _dare_ you,” Laufey snarled, voice echoing frighteningly through the hall. “How dare your people try to kill your prince?!”

“N … no,” Thorn spluttered. “He will _never_ … be … our prince … never mine.”

Loki, shaking, pulled himself into a sitting position. He almost blacked out from the pain, but he did his best to ignore it.

“Loki, stay down,” Fárbauti said. “You need a healer; there is poison still within you.”

Loki ignored her, shaking off her restraining arm. He felt like he was going to faint any second, and he dug his claws into his palms in the effort to stay conscious. “She will see me,” he said, hoarse. “She will know she and her lackeys failed.” He knew it had been her who had poisoned him; he remembered the taste of her mouth, and hadn’t she told him weeks before about the death kiss?

He pulled himself up on the table’s edge, leaning heavily on it and panting as his body screamed at him to stay still.

“Hroar commands you, does she not?” Laufey continued. “Then why tonight? Why try to kill us tonight?”

“Because of him,” Thorn said, her eyes darting to Loki. “He was weakened, an easy target. He is the keystone, your hearts are nothing but weak for him. He falls, you all do.” Still looking at Loki, Thorn whispered to him, “You deserve nothing less than death and damnation to Hel. You, your family, that lowborn whore of yours, and everyone last one of you who still bends their knee to the king who lost the Fornvetr.”

Laufey snarled.

“Why?” Fárbauti hissed. Her teeth elongated, and her back bristled with spikes of ice. “ _Why?_ ” Her voice echoed like thunder throughout the hall. She pushed herself up, muscles bunching and electric magic crackling around her. Ice turned to steam where she stepped, hissing and popping by her feet. Her hair flickered as if in a wind. She grabbed Thorn by her front and screamed, “ _WHY?!_ ”

 _Fárbauti Cruel-Striker_ , Loki thought with a new appreciation.

“You expected me, expect _us_ , to welcome him back?” Thorn coughed. She spat on the floor. “Asgardian filth! Hel take you! And you—” she turned her burning eyes on Laufey, “— _Your Majesty_ , are unfit to rule with your soft head and arrogance to think we should be as delighted as you with your Asgardian pet. Your sister wouldn’t make the mistake of letting Odin’s get walk Útgarðar’s hal—”

Fárbauti snapped her neck with a sudden, vicious, twist. The _crack!_ echoed in every corner of the room. Despite the aftermath of the slaughter, of the evidence of so much violence still strewn over and the floor and walls, no one dared breathe as Fárbauti dropped Thorn’s body, and the sound of meat hitting stone was as loud as thunder. She turned to Laufey, fear lining her.

“Þrymheimr,” she whispered. “Býleistr.”


	34. Chapter Twenty-Nine - Horns of Iron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 02-12-2015**

“Have you got a report for me, Storverk?”

“Aye, Highness. About Hroar, and where she’s been for the past fifteen hundred years.”

Býleistr looked at the new spymaster. He hadn’t made an appearance at the fights, hoping to gain at least a little privacy from Hroar and Thrymr, who were at the fighting pit deep beneath Þrymheimr’s castle. He still didn’t dare think the unprotected castle as a safe place to talk — all walls had ears. So prevent any kind of slip of information, Býleistr had slashed  _Yr_  runes into the corners of the room, and then in a circle on the floor in which he and Storverk sat. He’d had to surrender his glamour to hold the silencing magic, and felt self-conscious of his scars. He could see too Storverk doing his best to treat Býleistr as he normally did, but the man’s gaze seemed to linger a second longer than necessary on his bad eye. It made Býleistr want to hit him, unused to it as he was.

“Tell me, Storverk,” Býleistr murmured, not even wanting to risk the volume of his voice.

“The Skógarmadrfit, Highness,” Storverk replied, equally as quiet. “She filed her horns further back, grew her hair long enough to cover the bases. She changed her name and fell into a band. That girl of hers, Gróa, is the product of an agreed alliance.”

Býleistr growled under his breath — no matter her position, he still felt sorry as for the reason to the girl’s conception. It wasn’t an uncommon thing, but the children of such unions were valued for power more than love like they should have been.

“Why did she come out now?” Býleistr asked. “Why not earlier?”

“Why else but for the return of your brother?” Storverk said. Býleistr had known the answer in his heart, but he couldn’t have helped but hoped it was terrible coincidence. “It was a few nights after the Asgardians attacked.”

“Then she staked herself out here,” Býleistr finished. “Hid herself away behind Thrymr’s protection.”

“Yes, Highness.”

Býleistr scrubbed at his eyes and said, “Anything else? Plans? Movements?”

“It’s been difficult,” Storverk said. “Thrymr’s staff are loyal, and he’s bribed them well. We’ve not gotten much. We’ve sent fingers out to the Skógarmaðrfit in an effort to find any old allies of the Enginnsdóttir’s. I’ve had to arrange some …  _others_  to take their leave of Þrymheimr too. Permanently.”

Býleistr nodded his understanding. “I want a full report of everything you’ve done over the past month,” he said, “and I want it by the dawn.”

“Yes, Highness.”

As Storverk rose to his feet, Býleistr released the spell and slashed out the runes on the floor, then hid them under the rug he’d flung aside. He reconstructed the glamour for his scars as Storverk was led to the door by one of the guards.

“Find Ogladnir,” Býleistr commanded Kaldgrani, the head of his guard, “and send for Thrymr-Jarl too. The talks will continue. I would see them early tonight.”

“Highness,” Kaldgrani said, bowing. A guard outside the room hurried off.

Thrymr, the last Býleistr had heard, was still at the fighting pit with Hroar and Grýla. Býleistr had sent most of the guard with Grýla, leaving himself three. He didn’t trust Hroar as far as he could spit, but like most things, he didn’t have a choice but to send some kind of representative in his place. Not attending the fighting himself was risky enough as it was in the face of good manners. And suspicious. But he couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this for privacy.

He paced around the room, waiting for the affirmative to arrive back so he could set off to the meeting. The meetings themselves to come to at least an understanding between Thrymr and the throne had been the epitome of tedious. Thrymr had dug his heels in regarding his position on Loki, and Býleistr suspected it had much to do with Hroar whispering in his ear. Other than the child in Hroar’s belly, it was frighting how obviously affectionate of her Thrymr was. Býleistr wished he could give the order to kill her, but so long as Thrymr was officially on friendly terms with the crown, neither he nor anyone in his protection could be touched. The possibility of declaring war on Þrymheimr had not been dismissed as an excuse to get at Thrymr and Hroar both, but it was an unattractive one.

The guard didn’t return.

Býleistr continued his pacing, frowning heavily as he realised just how much time had passed. “Kaldgrani,” he said, summoning the man in, “how long has it been since Hastigi left?”

“Some time, Highness,” Kaldgrani said, a hint of worry colouring his voice. “Perhaps there has been a delay …”

“‘Perhaps’?” Býleistr asked impatiently.

“A crowd perhaps, Hornbearer,” Kaldgrani suggested, cautious. “Or perhaps Thrymr-Jarl and the Enginnssdóttir have left, and the Lady Stúmadóttir too.”

“But not together. Grýla wouldn’t go with them,” Býleistr said, more so in self-reassurance. “Wouldn’t she?” Even though he trusted her to have the common sense not to, he’d told her not to go with Hroar alone. And, he reasoned, if she had gone with her, it would have been in the escort of guards. One of them would have brought the news.

“It wouldn’t be above the Lady Stúmadóttir, my prince,” Kaldgrani said. “Perhaps His Highness would like to send Munnharpa to follow up? It wouldn’t be wise to take such a sign as the worst.”

“No,” Býleistr said harshly. “No … you and Munnharpa are staying here. You’re to stand guard by me, am I understood?” Guards charging about the castle would only present a picture of Býleistr at a disadvantage, whether it be one of panic or one of anxiety. “Stand on the door — my sire won’t be pleased to lose a son again.”

Kaldgrani bowed low. “My prince.”

Býleistr sat down and fiddled absently with a loose stud on his _kjilt_. The mention of Grýla had ignited a worry in him. Now his thoughts were consumed with her, and he wanted to find her himself. But couldn’t; he had to be patient, see what happened. He had to preserve his image.

 _But Hastigi would have at least run on if there were a delay_ , he thought. He couldn’t help but think something had happened.  _And Thrymr knows I grow impatient with his blathering at the meetings._  Býleistr even went so far as to suspect Thrymr didn’t want to apologise for his comments towards Laufey and Loki, and to suspect heavily that he was wasting his time here.

 _Perhaps Grýla was right — perhaps Thjazi should be sent back here to challenge Thrymr to_ hólmganga _. If he wins, then Hroar would lose her position, and then be a free target to eradicate._

Then he bellowed in pain when a blade sunk into his shoulder. The attack had come from his left, the side of his bad eye, and Býleistr snarled. He twisted away, wrenching the knife from his attacker’s hand with the movement, and picked up the first thing his finger’s came into contact with — a throw from one of the chairs. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he threw the fur over his attacker. It blinded them before he tackled them to the ground. He realised with a flash it was Kaldgrani, and he drew himself up to tower over the man, shaping a knife of his own. But before he could bury it into the guard’s chest, Kaldgrani had kicked him off. The breath was driven from Býleistr’s lungs and he went sprawling, landing on the hilt of the knife still in his shoulder, and he yowled in pain.

Kaldgrani wrenched the fur throw off himself as Býleistr scrambled to his feet, skin slick with blood. “Traitor,” he spat at the guard. He curled the fingers of his left hand, and tilted his head to keep Kaldgrani in line with his good eye.

He was viciously please to see Kaldgrani flinch. But then the man’s eyes darkened, and he lifted his lip. “I’m not acting with Hroar, Býleistr-Prince, know that, but it’s gone too far,” he said lowly. “You and your family. I can’t stand aside and watch my realm being ripped apart a second time because your sire is blind to the dangers your brother brings.” He stalked further forward. “I’ll blame Hroar, I will. Then I can return to Útgarðar and take care of your family.”

 _‘Blindi_ , was Býleistr’s first thought. “Why now?” he asked.

Kaldgrani’s nostrils flared, and he said, clipped, “You’re a fool, Highness. Spies can be bought in their own right.”

Býleistr didn’t have time to construct an understanding. Kaldgrani came at him again, and Býleistr pivoted away, trying to flank the man and take him in the throat from the side, but before he could so much as twitch, Kaldgrani was on his knees.

Munnharpa had come in the door, and her knife was buried in Kaldgrani’s neck. As Kaldgrani toppled, Munnharpa held her hands up in surrender. “Highness, I … I found Hastigi, and I—”

“Are you with him?  _Are you with Kaldgrani?_ ”

“No, Highness.”

“Swear it,” Býleistr said, edging towards her. “Swear that you are loyal to me and my family. To your king Laufey-Conqueror and his mate, and your princes.”

“I swear that and more,” Munnharpa said quickly. She was still beneath him, her head tilted back to show her throat in submission. “I swear it upon my heritage lines and Oblivion itself. I am loyal to Laufey-King and his true blood.”

Býleistr narrowed his eyes. “You said you found Hastigi. What happened?”

“I … I was patrolling. I found him stuffed away in an alcove. He’d been gutted, my prince.” When Býleistr lowered his arm, she said, “My prince, your shoulder …”

“I’m fine.”

He knew he was ashen faced. He could feel that, as well as the throb of pain from the knife — the adrenaline rush from the sudden attack had lessened. He reached behind him with a trembling hand and, gritting his teeth against the oncoming pain, yanked the knife from his shoulder. He bit through his lip in an effort not to howl, but a groan escaped him nevertheless. But Munnharpa was silent as Býleistr’s glamour dissolved so he could direct his magic into the wound instead. It scabbed over, the deeper muscle knitting together. He was reluctant to spend so much of his magic on his shoulder, though. He didn’t have an unlimited supply of it, and by the night’s end, he might need every scrap of it.

_“Spies can be bought in their own right.”_

Býleistr panted for a few seconds before he spat out drops of blood. “We have to find Grýla and her guards,” he said tersely. “What Kaldgrani said … I fear something else is happening tonight. Hroar’s planning something, I can taste it. Kaldgrani attacked now because I believe if Hroar wants to move soon, perhaps tonight, and it’ll be violent. He could hide the crime, then.”

“There’s sense in that, Highness,” Munnharpa agreed slowly. Býleistr knew it was a big leap in logic, but, when it came to those leaps, he had an uncanny knack for being right.

He nodded. “Arm yourself. And keep an eye out. I won’t have anyone else dying.”

Before they left, Býleistr turned over Kaldgrani’s corpse and buried his dagger in its cheek, tearing through the heritage lines upon it. He held the dagger tightly to keep his hands from shaking. “Come, Munnharpa.”

Munnharpa had armed herself with a sword on her arm. Býleistr copied her as they padded into the hallway, Munnharpa taking the lead and checking around the nearest corner. “Clear.”

Býleistr smelt Hastigi’s blood before they came upon the alcove. He was propped upright, his belly opened and the contents — ruptured organs and his slashed stomach — stunk terribly. Býleistr had to cover his nose as they passed, muttering a quick, two line dirge that Munnharpa echoed.

“I’m sorry,” he said to him, before he and Munnharpa left.

They dashed through the castle, springing into empty rooms twice when servants passed, holding their breaths they were so wary of discovery until the staff were safely past.

“To the fighting pit?” Munnharpa mouthed.

Býleistr nodded.

The guards had staked out the back passageways the servants used on the first night in Þrymheimr, and they hurried to the one nearest Býleistr’s chambers. He opened the door as quietly as he could and slipped in, Munnharpa behind him.

The corridors echoed here, and Býleistr and Munnharpa had to tread careful to avoid making any noise. They could hear a few other servants further within the maze, but nothing so close as to bother them — most were at the fighting pit. They were utterly silent as they made their way down through the castle, padding down stairs and dashing across long stretches of corridor. Býleistr’s magic was bright in his heart, but he couldn’t spend precious energy hiding the both of them the entire run down to the fighting pit.

“Prince.”

Býleistr stopped suddenly, and he shot a glance at Munnharpa from the corner of his eye. “What?”

“Can you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Voices,” she whispered.

“We don’t have time—”

“I think … I think one of them is Rifingafla-Lady’s.”

He’d heard the name before, and frowned deeply. “But, she …”  _She’s in the east, on the other coast._  ”How do you know?” After Kaldgrani had turned on him, Býleistr couldn’t bring himself to trust any of the other guards. Not even Munnharpa; after all, Kaldgrani had sworn oaths to him, too.

“I used to be part of her household, Highness,” Munnharpa said quietly. “She’s a very distinct voice.”

Býleistr didn’t want to deviate from the path they were already on, to find Grýla, but it would be foolish to not listen to Munnharpa. He nodded at her, and she took off down a side passage, and Býleistr hurried after her.

They kept on the balls of their feet, and as they followed the passage, Býleistr too started hearing people talking. Most of the words were indistinct, but he caught a few of them.

“… moving …”

“We … laws …”

“But the clash …”

Munnharpa slowed down, and Býleistr behind her as the servant’s corridor ended and spat them out into a wider hallway. It was deserted from both ends, as far as Býleistr could see, and the musty smell told him they were underground, perhaps not far from the fighting pit.

There was a door set in the middle of the corridor, left slightly ajar perhaps by accident, and it was from within the room beyond the voices were coming.

“Stay with me,” Býleistr whispered so quietly to Munnharpa he could barely hear himself. But Munnharpa nodded, and the two of them edged to the door so to better hear.

“It’s Rifingafla-Lady, Your Highness,” Munnharpa whispered back when a woman’s voice spoke next. Býleistr knew at once what Munnharpa had meant about Rifingafla’s voice being distinctive — it had a somewhat nasal drawl to it that reminded him of a drainage pipe.

“Why now of all times, Majesty? It’s been a millennium and a half since …”

And then another voice spoke, and somehow Býleistr wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised when he recognised it as Hroar’s: “Say it.”

“Ahh … forgive me for saying it so bluntly, Majesty,” a lord said, “but … but since you were cast out by he who bested you.”

Hroar chuckled just as Býleistr gestured for Munnharpa to stay quiet. He took a half-step forward and peeked around the doorway. He bit back a snarl of rage when he caught sight of what lay in the room beyond.

Thirty people stood around a central table, one of the old ones that were widely used before the war had crippled Jötunheimr’s technology. Like Útgarðar’s holo-projection table, this one was clearly broken, but it was buried under sheaves of parchment — notes and paragraphs and maps drawn in multicolour. No one was looking at the maps, though, the jötnar — highborn lords and ladies of not only Þrymheimr, but Býleistr recognised some from other territories and provinces, including Útgarðar — were focused instead on Hroar at the head of the table, standing in Thrymr’s rightful place.

Hroar, who wasn’t hornless anymore. Hroar, who was no longer lineless and bastard-born.

Upon her skin were new markings, ones that didn’t match Býleistr’s as they would have once done, but looped over her body in a new, complex pattern.  _Four_  sets of lines, slashing her cheeks and blooming over her chest. But her horns were by far the most eye catching. They weren’t bone, but made of black bars of iron, fashioned into jagged curves. They had been hammered into what was left of her old horns, and Býleistr could flinched at the thought of how much it would’ve hurt; he still thought blood seeped sluggishly from the bone. But the result was terrifying to look on — it spoke of ruthlessness.

 _Usurper_ , Býleistr thought furiously, lifting his lip.  _You have taken your horns through deepest theft._  She hadn’t won them from another. She had artificially crowned herself like a coward ruler of old. Declared herself a sovereign without any right.

Hroar was gazing pitilessly at the lord who had spoken, dragging a single claw across the tabletop; it produce a horribly echoing  _skreeek_  that made Býleistr want to clamp his hands over his ears. “And by him ‘besting’ me, are you suggesting that Laufey makes a better sovereign than I?” she asked softly.

“No, Hroar-Queen,” the lord said quickly. Býleistr had to stop himself howling in rage. She called herself  _Queen_ , now?! “But … it’s been centuries. What am I to tell my smallfolk? It would not be advantageous to have conflicting accounts and reasons as to why you strike  _now_.”

“You shouldn’t be a lord of smallfolk if you cannot deduce the reasons for yourself,” Hroar said, finally bringing her claw off the table with a  _fwit_. “I am patient. For those of you who, like Blapthvari-Lord, struggle with their mental capabilities, then this is why: My pig-brained brother has invited the enemy into his courts to run and proceed as an heir to the throne of our realm, our  _planet_. He is a son who spits on everything jötunn, and yet Laufey will hold him on high and ask us to bow before him and listen to his counsel? The dead prince will drive Jötunheimr into the ground, and Laufey will  _let him_.” She exclaimed, “Letting the Odinson breathe when his loyalty so obviously lies with Asgard is yet another mistake Laufey-Usurper has made! He has lost the Fornvetr to the Asgardians, and he is content to wait for the Spearbreaker to return it to us. He would let the heart of this realm sit in Asgard’s treasure room and watch the common people die.”

There came spitting, and snarls. Býleistr couldn’t believe his ears. Did they really think that his sire was happy to have the Casket in Asgard? Did they really believe he was negligent, that he didn’t care? That he hadn’t done as much as he could to provide for those who suffered?

But Hroar wasn’t finished, and Býleistr had to force his thoughts to quieten to hear what she said next:

“Life continues on in Útgarðar’s castle as it did before the war. With food abundant, with lords and ladies growing fat and lazy as they flick their fingers at the less fortunate to bring them their indulgences. Are they truly not blind, highborn, arrogant fools? Thrymr-Jarl has given his people all he can — food, shelter, education, treasures — but Laufey sacrifices nothing.

“And that is why. Laufey has …  _fucked himself_ , with his sentiment, and has given himself many enemies for it. I am to take those enemies and use them to my advantage. Their love for my brother is spent, and so they’ll have little choice but to turn to me — the only one strong enough to defeat him in _hólmganga_. I assume the reason why you’re all here is because you would prefer me to sit the throne as I am rightfully entitled to instead of the weakling king.”

Býleistr hugged the wall, closing his eyes as he did his best to commit everything being said to memory. He wished bitterly he had even a scrap of parchment and stylus so he could write down what was being said.

“Munnharpa,” he said, barely above a whisper, “you’re to get to Útgarðar and tell my sire what’s been said, yes?”

Munnharpa, pale-faced, nodded. “And you, Highness?”

“I have to find Grýla. I’m not leaving without her.”

“I cannot leave—”

“This is all very well, Hroar-Queen,” someone inside the room said, and Býleistr thought it was Blapthvari again, “but how do we start?”

“You think me an idiot?” Hroar asked, pithy. “You are not entitled to the details of my plans, only the execution of them. But to partake in that execution, I first require your loyalty to me, sworn in blood and on your knees.”

“You have it, Hroar-Queen.” There was a breath of pain, and then the man continued, “I swear on my ancestors.”

“Good.” There was a pause. “Follow his example, my lords and ladies. Your loyalty, and then my words.”

Býleistr felt his heart clench as the count of traitors rose higher.  _Twelve — Eimgeitir-Lord. Thirteen — Gusir-Lord. Fourteen — Oskrud-Lord._

And by the time Býleistr committed Unn-Lady to his head, the count had reach twenty-seven.

“Good,” Hroar said finally. There was the sound of footsteps — four of them — and then a laugh. “ _Good_ ,” she repeated. “Ahh, now my own words. Very well:

“First, my nephew is to die,” Hroar announced. “I will make my position to Laufey clear — that I am not to be swatted aside like so many others have been. Once Býleistr’s dead, our next move is to engage my brother. Not a word will be said about his and his beloved’s deaths. If Laufey demands to know what has happened to his son, he has been captured and is being held hostage. Stealth is our friend now.”

“You court war with Útgarðar and its allies?  _Now?_ ” one of the women said shakily. “Forgive me, Hroar-Queen, but is outright war with Útgarðar really the best thing? We are a handful, insurgents and traitors.”

“To label yourself insurgent is to say that Laufey is the true king,” Hroar snarled. “ _I_  am your ruler, and so long as you obey my every command, you are no traitor. You are no traitor for denouncing the false king — rather, you are an enlightened individual.

“Now is the perfect time. Laufey is vulnerable. An army is needed, and an army, for us, will not be hard to convince to fight for us. The people of the Skógarmaðrfit will readily ally with us, and they number in the tens of thousands. Gastropnir’s loyalty will tip with the slightest provocation — Fjölsviðr-Jarl will be willing to listen to us. But Glæsisvellir is the real problem; Gudmunth-Jarl will pose a challenge to defeat in _hólmganga_. But if we win the territories, then we win the throne.” She paused for a heartbeat before saying, “Laufey is too well surrounded to be taken by surprise, so we will march into Útgarðar hundreds of thousands strong, and I will take my crown back by force. I shall break Laufey’s horns, and his sons’ I will take and wear around my neck before hang their torn and broken bodies on the walls. I will bring Jötunheimr to glory once more, rid it of all mercy it may feel towards Asgard and its allies, and anyone who defies my rule will meet the same fate. Glapsviðr has assured my victory.”

Býleistr’s fingertips were white he gripped at the wall so hard. “Go  _now_ ,” he urged Munnharpa. “You have to get—”

Then, he heard an intake of breath. Býleistr spun and pounced on the servant boy before he had the time to think rationally. He clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth and hissed in his ear, “Make another sound, and I’ll cut your throat.” The boy, who had struggled initially, fell still at once, looking at Býleistr with wide eyes. Býleistr in turn looked at Munnharpa and jerked his head down the corridor. “Go.” She moved past him silently. Once she was gone, Býleistr relaxed a little. She could slip through the castle relatively easily if she came up with the right lies.

“Now,” he growled to the boy he held, “I’m going to let you go. But be assured if you tell anyone about my being here, if you take as much as  _think_  to speak of this, I’ll ensure your entire family is hunted down and killed, am I understood?”

The boy nodded.

“Harm any of my people, and your family will suffer. Determent any of my efforts to report this, and your family will suffer. And I swear to Oblivion I will  _make you watch_.” He slipped his hand from over the boy’s mouth.

“Yes, my prince,” the boy said hoarsely. “I am yours. I obey.”

“My queen! Outside!”

Býleistr pulled back sharply at the voice within the room. Had he been speaking too loudly? The boy? He shoved the boy away — who dashed for the servant corridor — and barely threw up a glamour of concealment in time.

The door swung open, and several highborn stepped out, including Hroar. He pressed himself into the wall behind him as the highborn fanned outwards, but Hroar stood opposite him in the doorway. Every line in her body was tense. She sniffed at the air, and Býleistr put a hand over his mouth and nose, holding his breath and watching Hroar unblinkingly. He darted a look into the room behind her. Thirty jötnar were within, and the plan Býleistr had started to piece together to kill Hroar evaporated. Even if he managed to kill her, he would have surely been cut down. Hroar’s hatred would not die with her, or with Thrymr. If anything, it would infuriate Þrymheimr loyal jötnar all the more. No, killing Hroar here and now was not a smart idea.

“Hroar, love?” Thrymr asked from behind her. He had a new scratch above his eye just starting to scab over.

“ _Shh_.” Her eyes passed over Býleistr’s hiding spot unseeingly, and her nose wrinkled after she scanned the corridor once again. Býleistr suddenly hated how much he looked like his Sire, and how much Hroar looked like Laufey.

She snapped her head around to her guards inside the room. “Bring Grýla out here. Now.”

_No!_

Býleistr, all sense driven from his mind, dropped his pretence and lunged at Hroar. The highborn yowled as Hroar barely managed to twist away, and Thrymr roared in outrage.

“I thought I heard a little creature scurrying outside,” she hissed.

“And I  _know_  I heard nothing but treason inside, bitch,” Býleistr bit back. “ _Where is she?_ ”

“Your broodmare Grýla?” Hroar crooned mockingly. “Dead.”

“Liar,” Býleistr snarled. “I would have felt it.”

Hroar made a sound of irritation and swiped at him. Býleistr jumped back, falling into the wall; the ice cracked under his back. He ducked beneath the ice shard she threw at him, and it sunk into the wall with an ear-grating screech. Býleistr didn’t try again for direct combat, instead sending a white-hot ball of fire into the door before turning and fleeing, blasting through the highborn in the corridor with another flare of magic. The world was a blur of blue and black in his bad eye, the ghost impressions of clamouring people. He barrelled past a group of servants who squawked in alarm, dropping their things with shatters and crashes.

“Seize him!” someone bellowed. “Seize Laufey’s son!”

Eyes locked on him, and Býleistr snarled, calling the ice to his shoulders, to his chest, his arms and back, and even to his horns. Guards were pouring into the corridor in front of him, and Býleistr swung his head when he got in close enough. One was gutted by the ice-spikes he summoned to his horns, and several others were bruised and battered by the blow. Býleistr roared, slamming his forearm into the throat of another. A spear caught him along the bottom of his ribs, and he hissed in pain. He swung around, claws extended, a sword of ice forming on his free arm. He kicked out at a pair of knees, aware that the troop of guards from the meeting room was closing in on him fast. Býleistr swore and pushed his way through the current guards, sprinting for his life through the castle.

The alarm was going up through the castle. It was a shred of luck that he was traveling faster than the news that he was the one being hunted down was. The few servants he came across moved aside for him, too startled and ignorant of what was happening to do much in the way of stopping him.

“Get him!  _Get him!_ ”

“Move!” Býleistr bellowed, and it was he the castle obeyed. For now.

He ate up the corridors, twisting and turning and using his magic to lose the pursuers. He had to spread them thin, at least. It was easier to fight through one or two of them than a pack, he reasoned.

 _But Grýla. Where is she?_ The only comfort he had on that count was that the bond he held with her was still well and alive.

He crouched down in the shadow of a corridor as five guards thundered past him in the beyond corridor. “This way,” the leader said, jabbing her spear down a side corridor. “Atla, you go that way. Kill him on sight.”

Býleistr stayed there a moment afterwards to catch his breath, spitting on the floor before he rose. Jogging off down the corridor Atla’s group had taken, he came to a wide-bellied passage that he knew was a floor below his and Grýla’s chambers. There was a flight of stairs up to the next level around the corridor’s far-left bend, and the right bend led around the castle’s east face. He headed for the right, unwilling to go back to the rooms — a sure trap.

But as he rounded the corner, he crashed into a servant. They went down in a twist and tangle of limbs, snapping and snarling before he recognised the other.

Frozen, Býleistr asked, “Grýla?”

“Býleistr! Oblivion, you scared me, you idiot.”

It was. Oblivion, it _was_!

“ _I_ scared  _you_?”

“You weren’t in the rooms.”

“I thought Hroar had you!”

Grýla shook her head as she pulled Býleistr to his feet. “Have faith, Bý. I’m not going to let her catch me. She went off, and I lost her. I’ve been searching—”

“I found her,” Býleistr said quickly as he dashed down the corridor. “But are you alright?”

Grýla took off after him and nodded. “Yes. Bý, thank Oblivion you are….”

“What happened to your guards?”

“Dead,” Grýla bit out. “Hringvolnir too. Ogladnir’s being held as a prisoner. Bý, we have to go.”

“You don’t say?” Býleistr bit back sarcastically. “I—”

She shook her head urgently. “Býleistr, when I went to our rooms, there was a message from Útgarðar. There was an uprising at the spring feast; Loki was poisoned.”

“ _What?_ ” He swallowed, his heart suddenly sick with worry for his little brother.  _If I hadn’t dropped him then he wouldn’t have been targeted because he’s—_  ”How did it happen? Is he …?” He didn’t know if he held enough of a bond with Loki to feel it if he died.

“He’s alive,” Grýla said quickly, and relief rushed over him, “but Blódughadda and Hrossthjof are dead.”

“Dead …? How? They’re strong fighters.”

“Later,” Grýla hissed, before she swallowed audibly.

Býleistr nodded. Blódughadda and Hrossthjof … how had that  _happened_? But Loki, of course Loki was alive. He was a survivor — that had been proved time and time again. Shouts were echoing through the corridor, and Býleistr shook himself; he would mourn them later. Forty or fifty guards were charging for them, and Grýla grabbed his hand, pulling him along down the corridors. They ran blindly, climbing higher to try and lose any stray pursuers. They periodically shot ice shards behind them, but it was all too soon before they ran into a dead end.

“No!” Býleistr roared, slamming his fists into his wall. “No, no,  _no_!  _Fucking — Hel!_ ”

“This way!” came a distant shout. “They’re down here!”

“Bý,” Grýla said brusquely, catching his elbow and stopping him breaking his hands against the ice and stone. “It’s the outer wall.”

“So—?”

“Break it down. Smash it.”

Býleistr caught her meaning quickly enough. “Hold them up.”

As Grýla iced a wall over the corridor’s mouth, Býleistr scratched runes into the stonework — he’d need a sturdy anchor; the wall would be at least a stride deep. Shouts echoed on the other side of the ice wall as Býleistr worked. When Grýla finished the wall, she paced behind him, a sword encasing her right hand, and her left swinging agitatedly at her side. She jumped when a fist slammed into the ice. “Bý!”

When he was done, Býleistr let out a breath to calm himself, retreated some steps from the wall, and raised his hands. It would hurt. Fixing his good eye on the runes, he hooked them with his magic and  _yanked_.

He screamed as the muscles along his back felt as if they had torn with the force of the pull. Blocks of stone moved, scraping against each other, and Býleistr, eyes watering with pain, pulled again. The wall exploded, and the blast sent him flying back, and he yelled when he landed; his injured shoulder and back were skinned raw from the slide. But when he looked up, the wall was open to the sky.

He picked himself up as Grýla hurried through the chunks of stone and ice and rubble to the gap. Her eyes widened. “We’re five storeys up.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Býleistr said gruffly. “I’ll catch us. We have no other choice, Grýla. Go!”

Grýla didn’t need to be told twice. She came the edge of the hole, but reeled back as a flurry of projectiles shot at her. They clattered off the castle walls.

“Damn,” Býleistr swore. He looked to his hands. “I can stop them.”

“Then how are we going to land safely?” Grýla asked incredulously.

Býleistr was already weaving another spell. It was now that he was cursing the fact that he hadn’t been born with more magic in his blood. He could direct it towards just one thing at a time. The landing was going to hurt if he was going to carry Grýla down. But again, there was little choice. His body was physically stronger than hers, simply because he was male. She’d break her leg if she jumped from this height.

“Bý.”

He took her in his arms and placed a foot on the edge. Grýla destroyed her sword and tucked her head against his neck as ice flew towards them, but Býleistr’s spell turned them aside. He still held her tightly to him. “Pray,” he muttered.

Before he had time to think about what he was doing, he jumped.

For some heartbeats, they were free falling, the wind roaring in their ears. Grýla was barely breathing, her eyes tight shut and her grip around his chest almost too tight. But then …

Býleistr roared as something in his ankle snapped, and he fell to a knee. Grýla leapt from his arms, fearless, and fell upon the five jötnar in the courtyard with animal savagery. The spear she summoned was blue with blood by the time she finished and turned back to him.

“Get the káshtar,” Býleistr said hoarsely, clutching at his ankle and pouring his magic into it.

“But—”

“Do it, Grýla, or we’ll never get out of here alive.”

She nodded and ran towards the káshtar barracks. Býleistr fell onto his side, groaning from the pain of his injuries. His ankle was the worst of them, but the cuts, scratches, and scrapes as well as the stab wound in his shoulder throbbed unpleasantly in synchronisation.

His ankle was far from healed when the guards came around the bend. Býleistr shot up, limping away towards the barracks. Grýla burst from the door to meet him. New blood was on her face, and she only had Raena trailing behind her. The káshta’s eyes were rolling, and Grýla was having trouble holding her.

“They slaughtered the others,” she said, helping Býleistr up as he threw up another shield against which the guards’ ice shattered. “Raena was the only one left, and if I was just a few seconds late …”

“Give thanks later,” Býleistr grunted. Raena’s back was bare, and what was left of the leading rein to act as a bridle, but there was nothing that could be done about that. Býleistr pulled her around as Grýla swung up behind him, flinging icy darts at the guards. They were caught by their own wards.

But as he swung Raena around, Býleistr had a glimpse of the castle’s steps. Hroar was standing there, and her eyes were narrowed in concentration as she raised her hand.

“Go, go!” Býleistr howled, kicking Raena in the sides. They had to  _move_. Raena sprang forward.

Hroar shot a dart at them. It sliced through the air with a low whistle, and Býleistr hauled on Raena’s mane in an effort to turn her. She shrieked with pain, but Býleistr didn’t pay attention. A soft hitch of breath in caught his attention, and he howled as Grýla slumped against his back.

“ _Grýla!_ ”

Raena ran on, and Býleistr barely had time to grab Grýla as Raena scaled the barbican with two huge bounds, her tail smacking the guards on the watchtower as she passed. The bridge across the defensive chasm had been collapsed, and Raena paused for the briefest of moments before she leapt over the void. She didn’t make the leap, but landed on the far cliff-face, screeching again when one of her claws broke on the ice as she clutched at the cliff. Býleistr had only been able to grip her with his knees and a single hand the entire time, and he was thanking his sire fervently for how often he had made him ride the káshtar. His half-healed ankle was forgotten as he held Grýla tight as Raena hauled her way up the wall. Býleistr again had to protect them from the shards shot their way from the other side of the gap, and each stab of them stole more and more of his magic.

“Go!” Býleistr screamed at Raena. The spell was failing, he knew. Raena hissed when a shard struck her hind paw, and there was a horrible moment when she slipped, before she regained her grip and hauled them over the edge. Scaling the outer wall was nothing after that, and the jötnar in the market beyond gasped and cried out in shock as Raena jumped into their midst, plunging down one of the roads before anyone could get a good glimpse at the riders.

As the houses raced by, Býleistr unceremoniously pulled Grýla into his lap, choking on his breath at the sight of her. Hroar’s shard of ice was embedded deep in Grýla’s back, barely missing her spine. His first instinct was to pull it out, but as he reached to do so with his magic, he cried out in despair. Barely so much as a wisp remained of it, hardly enough to do anything.

“Bý … Býleistr?” Grýla whispered so quietly he could barely hear her.

“Grýla, hold on,” he murmured, pouring what remained of his magic into her to at least ease the pain as they passed the last houses and defending wall of Þrymheimr-Greater. He made a makeshift bandage too, one of his ice to keep the pressure on. It wrapped around her middle, holding her spine straight too. “Please.  _Please_.”

Útgarðar had never seemed so far away as it did now, and the only thing Býleistr could think of to do was to pray.


	35. Chapter Thirty - War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDITED: 02-12-2015**

Loki didn’t remember being taken from the feasting hall. He didn’t remember being given an antidote to the poison either, but he assumed it had happened given that he woke later.

The first night after the poisoning was the worst. Throughout it, he felt like a cat was clawing its slow way through his guts. He was incredibly weak — even the once simple task of propping himself up in bed escaped him. Not only was he furious at himself for the weakness, but he had an immense, crushing sense of frustration and boredom. For he could _hear_ things happening all around the castle and the grounds, but little news as to what was happening apart from the reports he had when visitors came to his chambers.

But he knew that the realm was descending into chaos, all put into swing on the trigger point of his poisoning. Þrymheimr had been frustratingly silent, as well as several smaller areas within the southern Gastropnir and northern Glæsisvellir provinces. It was a widely accepted theory that those areas had split from the throne. But if the areas were working together or had formed splinter factions, or even if they had fallen out of contact through no fault of their own, no one knew. And Loki knew he was the excuse for it, knew that those displeased with Laufey were blaming him for their rebellions because of his history. He didn’t know what to think of it; sometimes he wanted to laugh, and others to rage.

But the one grace Loki was offered was that he was so tired he spent most of the second night in a drug-induced sleep. Sometimes he would drift into wakefulness, regardless of the time, and then promptly wish he hadn’t woken when the pain returned. He doubted he would have been able to get back to sleep if it hadn’t been for the draught Menglöð had left for him. She’d warned him not to drink too much, but Loki doubted he could’ve since it worked so quickly.

Occasionally, during his sleeping and waking hours both, his stomach cramped, and everything he had attempted to eat he promptly threw up. He also spat out more of the black gunk as well, and his waste had turned into sludge. He had no want to move for the pain, but even when he was lying still, he was never comfortable. According to Menglöð, he had no choice but to wait it out.

And whenever he’d woken, always someone was at his bedside.

The first time he woke, a night after the poisoning, it had been Helblindi, curled up in a chair and his head resting on Sigyn’s lap, mumbling something in his own sleep. Loki himself was so exhausted he’d barely made a sound before Sigyn passed the goblet to him. He was been so consumed with pain he didn’t had the energy to experience the regret of putting himself under again so quickly.

The second time it was Fárbauti occupying the chair, but she had changed to such an extent Loki didn’t recognise her at first. Her thick hair was gone, and her head shaved smooth. He stirred, coughing up more of the black poison, and she looked around at once. She dropped to her knees at his bedside, running a hand through his hair and reaching for a bowl with the other.

“Oh, my son,” she whispered.

He grabbed at the bowl and spat a mouthful of black into it. He could barely hold it.

“Your Majesty,” Menglöð said somewhere to the side, “I must give him some of this.”

“Of course.”

Loki hissed under his breath. “Taste it,” he rasped. “Taste it. _Now._ ”

Menglöð complied, if somewhat exasperatedly. She took a small mouthful from the cup she held, and, when nothing happened, she looked at Loki. He gestured for it; Fárbauti moved aside for her. Menglöð helped Loki up into a sitting position, and he spent the next ten minutes sipping it down so not to throw it up. His stomach eased considerably with each mouthful.

“Better?” Fárbauti asked after Menglöð left.

“I’m not dying,” Loki mumbled back. He did feel better, immensely so. He got an elbow under him and gingerly moved himself into a more comfortable position. He cast another glance at Fárbauti; he couldn’t help but look at her head.

She noticed. “I thought it appropriate for the current situation.” She paused. “It’s been a millennium since I last looked like this.” Býleistr had said Fárbauti had grown her hair after the war. Had regressed from a warrior to an onlooking queen-consort.

“What’s happening?” Loki asked.

“The realm’s stirring,” Fárbauti said. “I’m afraid at how fast and how violently it’s happening. We’ve not been able to contact Þrymheimr, and …”

“You fear for Býleistr?”

“What dam wouldn’t care for her son’s wellbeing?”

Loki bit back the scornful reply on his tongue, only turned away. He scratched at a horn, intent on ignoring her.

“Have I hurt you?” she asked.

Loki gave her a scathing look in reply as if to say, _Well what the fuck do you think?_

“Just get out,” he whispered. “Mourn your sons someplace else. Býleistr and Hveðrungr both.”

Fárbauti froze, shocked. “… What?”

“Hveðrungr,” Loki said again, slowly, pointedly enunciating and dragging the name out. “Both of your sons, I said. For that is what you long to call me, isn’t it? I imagine that every time you say my Æsir-given name, your heart dies a little inside. How it reminds you of how hopelessly Æsir-ian I truly am.”

Her startled expression slowly faded, and she shifted her position. She didn’t reach for him; Loki was grateful for that. “I spoke carelessly, Loki. I should not have said that.”

“Careless speaking is often what is closest to the truth in a heart.”

“Loki, my darl—”

“Do not call me that.”

“Loki … understand that I do not wish any sort of unhappiness on you,” she said. “Hveðrungr, Loki … it matters not. I shall call you however you wish.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Loki said. “Do you want him, or me?”

“Why do you ask this?”

Loki wanted to scream, to get her to stop squirming away from the question. “Because if you haven’t yet noticed, I’m a masochist.” Loki returned her gaze. “I’ve answered your question, so you — answer — _mine_.”

“I don’t wish to call you Hveðrungr,” Fárbauti said. “We are not who we were once meant to be. It is futile to cling to that.”

The words hurt unexpectedly more than Loki would have thought.

The third time he woke, he had heard Laufey’s voice above him, and as such, he refused to open his eyes. He heard Laufey shift his weight then, and Loki was terrified the king knew he was conscious, and he concentrated on returning his breaths to deep, even things. He still had trouble not flinching when Laufey cupped his cheek. He waited for Laufey to say something, anything, but as the silence stretched on and on without a word, the tension in Loki’s belly coiled on itself to the point where he almost gave himself away.

Laufey’s hand moved, tracing up the side of his face to rest in his hair. He ran his claws through it, and whispered, “I’m sorry this has happened, Loki.”

Loki considered pushing him away — it was obvious the king knew he was awake — but before he made up his mind, Laufey squeezed his shoulder and moved away. Loki lay frozen long after Laufey had closed the door behind him.

He had dreamt then. He dreamt that he was in a case of glass, scrabbling at slippery walls. His claws left scratches — frightful jagged lines that soon vanished when he looked to them again.

 _Let me out_ , he called.

But no one was coming to let him out. Loki called out louder, but the elusive _they_ of those outside the box again did not hear him. Shadows shifted at the edge of his vision, and they condensed into solid forms. He lifted his head, recognising them after a few, sluggish moments. He lurched towards them.

 _Thor!_ he screamed, voiceless. _Helblindi! Býleistr!_

But they ignored him, not facing him, nor each other. He slammed his fists against the glass, and his shoulders when his hands didn’t break the panes.

_Thor! ‘Blindi! Bý! Brother!_

Others appeared — Sigyn, Frigga, Fárbauti, Odin … Laufey.

 _Help me!_ he howled. _Sigyn! Mother! Father! Dam … Sire…._

Then, suddenly, the glass shattered under his hands, a million chips of diamond suspended too long in the space before they began to fall. He closed his eyes and threw his arms up to protect his face, but when he lowered them, they were gone.

_No…._

He stood alone, his skin a strange patchwork of Æsir pink and jötunn blue.

 _Laufeyson_.

He raised his chin. A grey-eyed raven sat a little distance away from him, head cocked to the side. _The fool Laufeyson_ , it said.

 _Yes_ , Loki thought. _Yes…_

* * *

#

* * *

When he opened his eyes for the fourth and final time, Sigyn was curled up next to him. Such a shuddering sob of relief went through him at the sight of her he almost choked. He’d barely twitched before she moved, leaning back to look at him better and brushing her hair from her eyes. She was beautiful, Loki thought, when his eyes found the freckles splattered across her nose.

“Hello,” he croaked.

“Loki,” she said simply, smiling in utter relief as he reached for her. She entwined his fingers with hers, merely holding his hand before she brought it to her heart. “I’ve been so worried….”

Loki hooked his free arm around her waist, pulling himself closer to her until they were pressed chest to chest, their hands trapped in the space between them. Sigyn leant forward, touching her forehead to the edge of his horns. The gap between was too narrow to allow her closer, and Loki hated that. He scooted closer instead, tucking her head under his chin and enfolding her in with his other arm. It was nice just to hold her, to immerse himself in the sounds of her breathing, the beat of her heart beneath his hand at her chest. He fought back the cough tickling his throat, loath as he was to spoil the moment. But he had to let it out eventually, and Sigyn pulled away, looking him in the eye.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked.

He nodded as another cough wracked him.

The bed was achingly cold when she got up, retreating to the bathroom and returning with a cup in hand as he sat upright. The iciness of the water shocked him awake, and Sigyn sat at the foot of the bed, looking at the floor with her hands pressed, prayer-like, between her knees.

“I heard you and the queen-consort fighting,” she said suddenly.

Loki blinked, startled. When he remembered the argument, he couldn’t think of anything to say, so he put the cup down on the nightstand.

Sigyn was uncomfortable, fidgeting incessantly. “I don’t want to keep secrets from you,” she said quickly. “I should not have heard, I know that, but I … I …”

“Sigyn?” Loki asked. “It’s alright, i-it’s—” he hacked a cough, “—it’s fine.”

“It was private,” she whispered, looking at him with bright eyes. “I did not know.”

“About my name?”

“No one knew your name,” Sigyn said. “You were too young to be granted it.” She looked away again. “I meant that I did not know it was a private conversation until I heard too much of it, my prince.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Loki said, tired. He licked his lips, and then prodded, “Were you curious?”

“About what?”

“The conversation.”

Her guilty look was enough of an answer for him. She lifted her chin, swallowing tightly before she asked, “What was it like? Asgard.”

Loki sucked in a breath. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about Asgard since Thor had come, had forced the memories of Valaskjalf and the rolling fields beyond the city deep into his mind, hadn’t allowed them to surface for more than a few seconds before he flung them away once again. But Sigyn’s simple question broke the lock.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the city as it was from his balconies — the glittering waterways and the golden roofs, the shimmer of Bifröst Bridge in the midday sun, the baking heat that rose from the paving stones, the calls of the birds in his mother’s garden … the green. The endless green. The endless _life_ ….

“It was home,” Loki said in a voice that quavered far more than he liked. “It was light and warm and busy. It was a blend of the urban and nature, trees stretching down the boulevards …”

“I’ve heard they’re green,” Sigyn said softly. “Trees, that is, and that their leaves rustle like pages in a book, and that they smell sweet.”

“The flowers some bear smell sweet,” Loki corrected through a tight throat. “The trees themselves smell earthen and woody….” It hurt to remember, hurt so much he almost thought the broken bond had flared back to painful life again. He closed his eyes, throwing his head back and breathing in until his lungs were full to bursting. “It’s so _different_ from here you can’t possibly understand—”

He was choking on the memories, and Sigyn said, very gently, “Loki.”

“I … I miss the smaller things I took for granted,” Loki said in a rush. “I miss the sound of grass, miss the feeling of rain on my face, I miss the heat of the sun. I miss the strings of Asgard’s instruments, wind blowing through silk curtains, sweet fruits…. I miss the things that I never thought about — I miss not hating myself as I do, miss having no want to rip my skin off because this body isn’t _mine_.” His voice cracked. “It’s like when you have an ache — you know what it’s like to not have it, but it’s so hard to detach yourself enough to remember what it was like before, and you know that when it goes, you never think to appreciate the absence of the hurt. But this ache is one that never leaves, and that you know will last for an eternity. I miss my family, my mother and my brother the most. And Thor and I, we … we …” He shook his head, refusing to dive that deep.

“There, Sigyn,” he said instead. He had slipped back into the Allspeak at some point, he dully realised. “I had a _life_ … and it’s gone. Forever. Sometimes I wonder why I still breathe when there is a part of me that so badly wants to die.”

“I do not want you to die,” Sigyn whispered, and he looked at her, both grateful for the steadiness of her voice, but yet yearning for some deeper reaction, some kind of emotional evidence that she would miss him and mourn for him, no matter what wretched thing he had turned into.

“I’m trying,” he said, begging for her to understand. She moved to him, and he reached to grip her forearms, to steady himself. “I’m trying to change myself, I’m trying to accept this, but it doesn’t matter how strong I think my resolve is, I can’t forget. The thoughts creep back. It’s like trying to hold back a tide with my hands.”

“I won’t pretend to fully understand what you must be feeling,” Sigyn said to him a long time later, “but know that I will do anything I can to help. Loki, I want you to accept yourself, to like yourself, but I know that it will not happen as quickly as some want. I promise you I will let you take your own time. I promise.”

“You don’t need me,” he growled. “I’m a mess. I don’t want to drag you into it.”

“I’m not going to be dragged into it,” Sigyn said. “I’m going to help you get out of it. I promise.”

“That’s a big promise,” Loki said, serious.

“I would still help,” she said. “I promised, did I not?”

“You would still help even though I am your enemy in my mind? That I am still and forever will be Æsir?”

“If you’re trying to scare me away, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

But even though he had given her an out, scaring her away was the last thing he wanted to do. He let her go and hugged himself, looking at his lap. “Now you know,” he murmured. “You know why I’ll never be what my blood wants me to be.”

“That’s not true,” Sigyn said, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Helblindi-Prince adores you, Loki. All he has talked of these past nights is you, and how you saved him at the feast. And your dam, she has been beside you as often as she could spare, your sire too.”

Loki couldn’t bring himself to growl at her. Instead, he said, “I … I want to …” And, as she watched him, Loki grit his teeth, and shifted to his Æsir skin. The cold was a punch to his chest, and he almost gasped at the biting temperature. Indeed, he had to steady himself with a hand and concentrate on the shift. It was heartbreaking — how his body could barely hold his Æsir form now, as if it had forgotten what it was like to wear. He needed to practice his shifting more, needed to master it. But he forced himself to hold it. He felt like it was the most necessary thing in the worlds for her to see him how he really was. For her to _know_.

It felt … strangely intimate, showing himself like this to her — his real self. He felt vulnerable and naked, shivering with the cold as his breath fogged before him. And she was so big compared to him now.

Sigyn was slack-jawed, and her eyes ran up and down his body. “This is you?” she asked.

Loki felt defensive at the question. Embarrassment flooded him, and he was on the cusp of shifting back and snapping at her, but she continued, “You still … look like you.”

“What …?”

She placed the tips of her fingers very gently under his chin and lifted his eyes to hers. He felt frozen when their gazes met. “Green … I have never seen green eyes before.”

And then he had to shift back. Sigyn’s touch, before so cold on his skin, faded back to a like temperature as he changed. She no longer towered over him, but he over her once again. He grimaced as the horns came back into being, the half-set bases clicking a little after the upset. “Ow,” he muttered.

Sigyn barely concealed a smile. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Loki said nothing in reply. There was nothing he needed to say. The relief was enough.

Outside the castle, a horn sounded. Loki and Sigyn both looked around to the window, and Loki, leaning heavily on Sigyn, rose from the bed. He fought back the grimace of pain as he leant on the bay window, squinting to try and see what had prompted the horn.

A rider closing fast.

* * *

#

* * *

Loki had thrown on his _kjilt_ quickly, donning his armour with Sigyn’s help as he waited for the painkillers he’d stuffed into his mouth to work. He was fastening his bracers and greaves as he left his chambers, and it was a blessed relief to be out of them. He waited for Sigyn to exit too before they made their way through the castle.

“Tell the king and queen-consort I’m coming,” Loki said to the first servant they came across outside the solar’s door.

The servant nodded and headed off quickly.

By the time Loki and Sigyn had made it down to the throne room, the rider had already been received. It was a woman Loki distantly recognised, one of the guards he had seen around the castle. She was finishing a report as Loki came to a halt in doorway of the throne room’s adjoining antechamber.

“… came back as quickly as I could, Majesty.”

“And you _didn’t_ stay with him?” Laufey snarled.

“Býleistr-Prince’s orders were to return with the names of those who have turned traitor to the crown,” the she-jötunn said, kneeling before the throne and her head bent. “He refused to leave without the Lady Stúmadóttir. He felt it important that I should at least give warning.”

“Your orders were to protect your prince,” Laufey thundered from his throne. “You were to give your life in service to him, _not_ to act as a mere bauble! How dare you?”

The she-jötunn’s jaw was tight. “I accept this blame, Your Majesty,” she whispered. “I recognise that I have failed in my duty, and I will pay whatever price my king sets in recompense.”

Laufey’s snarl was drowned by another horn, and Fárbauti, who had been sitting so far back in her own seat so as to blend with the shadows, sat forward at once. As she moved, her eyes found Loki and Sigyn; she didn’t object to Loki being on his feet as he had expected her to. “Sváss,” she said to Laufey, “hold your judgement for now. There is still hope.” Loki saw Helblindi poke his head around the side of Fárbauti’s throne, eyes finding his in an instant.

Laufey didn’t look happy, but he bit out, “See that you give your names to Lord Vafþrúðnir, Idadóttir.”

“Yes, my king,” the she-jötunn murmured, inclining her head all the more as Laufey stood.

“Loki, Helblindi,” he called. “Come.”

Loki squeezed Sigyn’s fingers before he stepped away from her, holding himself as high as he could through the pain and striding down the length of the room after the king.

“Loki, I don’t think you should be out of bed,” Helblindi said, falling into step with him. Then, nearly pushing Loki over with the force of it, he wrapped his arms around Loki’s chest. “Thank you for saving me,” he murmured into his ribs.

“Why wouldn’t have I?” Loki replied.

Helblindi didn’t answer the question, only hummed as they came to the Outer Court.

“Report,” Laufey demanded of the jötunn standing at the mouth of the king’s balcony. He planted his hands on the balustrade and, leaning his weight on his arms, looked out beyond Útgarðar’s city towards the tundras.

“There’s a second rider approaching, my king,” the jötunn said. “There’s too great a distance currently to determine who it is.”

“Is it Bý?” Helblindi whispered. He hugged Loki tighter.

“I don’t know,” Loki said back. “Maybe.” But it was just as likely to be a pursuing party from Þrymheimr, intent on quelling the source of dangerous information the she-jötunn could deliver. He didn’t say it to Helblindi though, and leant as subtly as he could on the throne’s backrest. He felt like he was going to throw up yet again from all the sudden movement, and bitterly wished he hadn’t put his armour on. Still, it was better to be cautious than dead.

Fárbauti came up to the balustrade. Before anyone could say anything, she shifted into her valravn form. She leapt from the balcony, buffeting those beneath with powerful strokes of her wings as she climbed high, and soared out to the oncoming rider. Loki watched her, but everyone else was so nonplussed by the event they had hardly twitched, their attention still focused on the speck of a rider. A servant came to gather the clothes Fárbauti had shed in her transformation, and then backed away.

Loki saw two more dark shapes leap from the castle, and they worked quickly to join Fárbauti. The three blended almost perfectly against the night sky, and Loki quickly lost sight of them.

“You’re not gonna follow?” Helblindi asked Loki. Loki shook his head. A part of him wanted to, but he didn’t think it a good idea. He didn’t touch on the fact he didn’t think he could hold a shape long enough to fly.

“Can anything be seen?” Laufey growled, and the words were carried to the watchtower by those below, repeated over and over until they were delivered to the watchman.

“They are still too far out, Majesty,” the jötunn called. But then, after some minutes as the káshta drew close to the city’s outskirts: “Oblivion. It’s Býleistr-Prince!”

Helblindi let Loki go, surging forward to the balustrade and gripped it as tight as he could, quivering. “Open the gate!”

“Hold!” someone else called. “Check him first. The last thing we need right now is an imposter.”

“Open the barbican gate,” Laufey said.

The orders were obeyed. The gate was cranked open as guards rushed forth, spreading in a half-moon around the barbican and summoning spears to their hands. A shadow rushed overhead, and then Fárbauti landed with a crash on the darkened part of the balustrade, shifting just as the káshta ran up the main road and stumbled through the gate. Its flanks were covered in white lather, the tongue lolling out of the mouth yellow with crusted bile, and it heaved for breath. The two riders were covered in blood. Helblindi gave a sharp intake of breath, and he twitched to move over the balustrade, but Loki’s hand was heavy on his shoulder. He squeezed it as the guards levelled their weapons.

Býleistr looked up to Laufey. His glamour was gone, his scars bared for all to see, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Sire,” he croaked. “Please…. _Help her._ ”

It was then Loki noticed that the second, unconscious rider was Grýla. Her skin was blue-grey with ill health, and Loki would have thought her dead if the guard who surged forward and pulled her gently from the káshta’s back had not announced, “She’s alive.”

“Hold,” Fárbauti, redressed, ordered. Everyone froze. Fárbauti leant forward and said in a low voice, “Býleistr, when Helblindi was born, what did you say to me?”

Býleistr trembled. “Dam, please—”

“Tell me.”

Býleistr keened, and then lowered his head. “I said … I said that I would drop him. That I—”

“Enough,” Fárbauti said gently. “Lower your weapons.” The spears melted at once. Býleistr’s head was still down. “Get Lady Stúmadóttir to the healing halls this instant. The best care is to be given to her.”

Two guards came forth, shaping between them a stretcher. Grýla was placed onto it before the party hurried away. Býleistr made to follow, but Fárbauti said, “My love, I know your concerns lie with her at this time, but we need you to tell the court what happened. After it is done, you can be with her to your heart’s content.”

“O-of course, Dam,” Býleistr said quickly. “They’re coming. Behind us….”

Fárbauti nodded. “Keep watch. Kill any pursuers you see.”

Loki couldn’t help but feel a pang for Býleistr. It hadn’t been kind to make him reveal such a personal thing in front of so many, especially when his beloved’s life depended on it. Loki looked to Helblindi now, but Helblindi didn’t seem to have taken the information as something particularly shocking. Perhaps he’d heard it before.

Helblindi said, “Sire? Is Grýla going to be alright?”

“I don’t know, ‘Blindi,” Laufey said. “You may go and see, if you like.”

Helblindi didn’t need to hear the words again. After he sped off, Laufey nodded at two of the nearest guards, and they followed Helblindi.

Býleistr’s head was hung as they retreated into the castle. He was limping, dragging his feet along the floor, and he stumbled once or twice. From what Loki could see of his mismatched eyes, Býleistr was exhausted, his thoughts far away. With Grýla, no doubt.

“Býleistr, are you well?” Fárbauti murmured. Her hand ghosted over his shoulder, and Loki saw Býleistr flinch from the corner of his eye.

“I’m fine,” Býleistr said gruffly. “I’ll be fine.”

“Who did this to you?” Fárbauti asked, indicating his shoulder.

“Kaldgrani Enginnsson,” Býleistr growled. “Munnharpa killed him.”

“ _Kaldgrani?_ ” Laufey’s voice was loud enough to fill the corridor, and Býleistr nodded. Laufey’s expression was of thunder as he threw the double doors to the throne room open, muttering under his breath, “Is there no one left?”

He sat himself on his throne as the nobles trailing them filed in, muttering amongst themselves. They retreated to the sides of the room, leaving Býleistr in the room’s centre. Fárbauti sat down, the movement jagged, and Loki took his place next to her, eyes closed as he fought off the feeling of sickness.

“Býleistr,” Laufey said, and what muttering there had been died down at once. “Tell us what happened.”

Býleistr licked his lips, and then, finally, lifted his head. “Hroar was in Þrymheimr,” he started.

Snarls and roars echoed through the throne room, and several pairs of eyes widened in fury. The sharp noise of forming ice scraped through the air too, and Angrboða, standing just out of Loki’s line of sight, muttered, “But of course. That only makes sense.”

Býleistr waited for the anger to die down before he continued, raising his voice to be heard above the cacophony. “I ordered the spy ring to keep an eye on her. It worked for three or four weeks as I talked with Thrymr, but … The talks, they were a distraction — I’m sure of it. There was no goal to reach an understanding, only a desire to keep me there until Hroar was ready to move. Kaldgrani Enginnsson must have caught wind of it, because he killed Hastigi Leirvosson and attempted to kill Munnharpa Idadóttir and myself. After the Enginnsson was slain, we tried to find Grýla and her guards. Only we came across Hroar and her rebel faction.

“They plan to take the other two territories and rally the Skógarmaðrfit to then march on Útgarðar. Hroar plans to take the throne, Sire, and to murder us all. I was discovered and I found Grýla. We made our escape together. But it was during that Hroar injured Grýla. That was four nights ago. We haven’t stopped since….”

Laufey was grave faced, and he said, “Thank you, Býleistr. See yourself to Menglöð.”

“I have names,” Býleistr said almost frantically. “Blapthvari, Rifingafla—”

“I know,” Laufey said over him. “Munnharpa Idadóttir arrived a little before you. She has told us the names of the traitors. Tend to your injuries, Býleistr. Don’t make me order you.”

Býleistr nodded, tired. “Yes, Sire.”

“This is dire,” Laufey said. “Vafþrúðnir, see that my orders are dispatched and acted upon.”

Vafþrúðnir, Laufey’s steward, sprang forward, tablet and pen at the ready as Laufey spoke. “Messengers will be sent to Gastropnir and Glæsisvellir,” he said. “Letters are to be drafted at once and await my seal.” Laufey spotted Angrboða to the side of the room, and he said to her, “Angrboða-Lady, you will go to Gastropnir; Fjölsviðr-Jarl will readily listen to your testament, and make sure you get there first.”

“Yes, Your Majesty; I will prepare now,” Angrboða said, bowing before she left. Vafþrúðnir scribbled it down.

“The Skógarmaðrfit won’t be welcome to us — it is a lost cause. I want the border secured and sealed. No one gets through unless by the direct authority of my council.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I want a call to arms from Útgarðar. I want to re-receive oaths of loyalty from all nobility with more than two hundred sworn warriors to their name. Minor nobility of small localities will swear to those directly above them in rank still loyal to me. Any who are not will be brought here to revaluate their opinions, before their titles stripped and their property passed to someone worthy. Examples _will_ be made of them.

“Messengers will be sent across the seas to gather warriors from the other territories. All food supplies will be documented; the wild herds will be tagged and tracked, and all agricultural yield will be sent straight here.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“I want trusted eyes on those jötnar of other kinds — the storm kinds especially.”

“Wise of you, Majesty.”

Laufey snorted at that.

Loki had to admit they were thorough orders, and there was little doubt that more would be issued over the coming nights. If Laufey was one thing, it wasn’t a fool. He was shrewd, aware of what had to be done.

“Loki.”

Loki found Sigyn at the door to the antechamber, and when she caught his eye, she crooked a finger at him. Loki excused himself and joined Sigyn. “What?”

“You’ve been overheard,” she murmured so quietly Loki barely heard her. “Over there.” She pointed.

A Vanaheimr tapestry hung on the wall there, and Loki padded over on silent feet. Loki could tell there was an alcove behind the fabric — the slight lump in the middle was too flat to offer any other kind of explanation. Loki paused before he snatched at the tapestry. He lifted it up with one hand and grabbed the child hiding behind it with the other. The child thrashed in his grip, so Loki grasped him firmly by the shoulders to hold him still. It was only when the boy was still did he recognise that it was one of the bastard twins from Þengraðr.

“What did you hear?” Loki asked him.

“Nothing, _Æsir prince_ ,” the boy said with a sneer.

Loki rolled his eyes. _Perfect_ , he thought. _This one._

“Where’s your brother and sister?”

“I dunno, do I?” the boy snapped back.

“What was your name again?” Loki asked. “ _Hrafn_ , wasn’t it?”

Hrafn told him to go do something obscene.

Loki growled. “Hrym, Fálki,” he snapped to the air. “Get here now.”

It took a few seconds, but the other two slunk out of their hiding spots — Hrym from under a low bench, Fálki squashed beside her. Sigyn stood back in the doorway as Hrym and Fálki shuffled towards Loki, and he released Hrafn’s arm when they were just out of arm’s reach. Hrafn sprang away at once.

“What did you gain in eavesdropping?” Loki asked, to the point. “This room is hardly unfrequented; that you’d be caught was inevitable.”

“There’s war stirring, isn’t there?” Hrym said.

“It’s none of your concern.”

“I’m not a child!” Hrym snapped. “Don’t treat us like babies.”

“What did you gain in eavesdropping?” Loki repeated.

“Hrym,” Hrafn said, voice low in warning.

“Did you want to tell Thrymr?” Loki asked. He knew he’d hit the mark when Hrym’s nose crinkled in annoyance. “What you heard won’t get you far,” Loki continued. “What was said was only logical. Þrymheimr will expect it. You risked yourselves for nothing.”

Hrym’s cheeks darkened with embarrassment, her fists clenching at her sides.

“Not true,” Hrafn declared. “We heard everything about the lords swearing oaths, and that’s important. Thrymr-Jarl will want to know.”

Loki waved it away. “Standard protocol. Nothing’s new there.”

“Then what about the others?” Hrym asked. “The herds and the treasonous people.”

“Why are you doing this?” Loki asked, tired of the prospective circles that would have been tread shooting down the children’s hopes.

“ _Why?_ Because you killed our dam!” Hrym spat at him. “Because _you killed her_!”

“You would betray your king for something that wasn’t my fault?”

“Not your fault?!” Hrym screeched.

Loki caught her wrists as she swiped for him. “No,” he said firmly. “Thrymr sent her to die.”

“You’re a liar!” Hrym screamed. “I saw you kill her! You drove your spear through her, then you threw her aside like she was nothing.”

“Because I had no choice. She was going to kill me.”

“I wish she did, Asgardian! I wish she did, I wish she _did_!”

“I was forced to because of Thrymr,” Loki said, keeping his voice calm. He wove magic into his words like he had woven it when he’d gotten Býleistr drunk, but it was a different kind of magic he employed now. He used magic to help calm Hrym from her frantic state, but did it subtly, so to not alert her that it was happening. Children were all too perceptive, he’d found in the past. “Thrymr is the one at fault. He sent Hrimgerd to kill Angrboða-Lady and me on his orders. Hrimgerd … and those who agreed to help him. Those without house lines. He sent those like you because he sees you as rubbish, as things to be killed and abandoned.”

“That’s not true,” Fálki said quietly, the first words Loki had ever heard him speak.

“Isn’t it?”

“Hrimgerd gave us food.”

“Livestock are given food and fattened up before they’re sent to be slaughtered.”

Fálki swallowed, then hid himself back behind his sister.

Tears slipped from Hrym’s eyes, and she shook her head, angrily wiping them away. “You still killed Dam,” she said stiffly. “It was your spear….”

“I know,” Loki said softly.

“You could have taken her hostage. Like you did us.”

“You’re not hostages—”

“We’re _slaves_ ,” Hrafn said over him.

Loki was still looking at Hrym. “You have friends here, though. I saw you playing with my brother some weeks ago. _Hnefatalf_ in the solar with him and another boy.”

“So?” Hrym asked, surly. Within the blink of an eye, her manner had become far more defensive. He’d found a weak spot, and he pressed it.

“You wouldn’t want your friends to die too, would you? Like Helblindi? Because if you go and help Thrymr and Hroar, they’ll kill him.”

“Good,” Hrym said, but there wasn’t any conviction behind the words. “I want you all to die.”

_Stubborn child._

“It wouldn’t be wise to go back to Þrymheimr,” Loki said flatly. “There would be no guarantee that you would live — any of you. You have our protection here.”

Hrym threw him a filthy look before she grabbed Hrafn and Fálki’s hands and stalked away. When she reached the antechamber’s door, she turned around and bowed in a quick, curt manner. Hrafn gave her a disbelieving look as they disappeared. He all but slammed the door behind them.

Loki sighed and leant back against the wall, running a hand through his hair. “They’ll need to be watched,” he said aloud. He could hear Hrafn arguing with Hrym outside, but soon their voices trailed away.

“How?” Sigyn asked. “They’re children, servants at that. They’re bound to slip through the cracks.”

“Easy,” Loki replied. He looked after them and said, “I just planted the seed.”

“Your brother?”

Loki nodded. “You saw Hrym’s reaction when I brought him up. Helblindi’s easy to get on with, and he’s her age. She’ll be far more likely to trust him than me, and her brothers will follow her.”

“But what if your brother refuses to contribute?”

“Then I guess I’ll have to have them clip my nails for me.”

Sigyn snorted. “Aye. That’ll endear them. They won’t ever run to Þrymheimr.”

It was Loki’s turn to feel amused. “It’ll work,” he said. _It will._

* * *

#

* * *

Loki saw surprisingly few jötnar over the next few hours. The castle was too busy to bother much with him, so he found, most of the time, stretches upon stretches of corridor empty. The only time he was cornered was when a jötunn confronted him in the corridor, having been sent by Menglöð after she’d heard he was up and walking.

“I feel fine,” Loki insisted, scowling at the jötunn who was trying to get him to return to his chambers to rest. “I’ll have you know I haven’t been sick once since I got up.”

“Your Highness, it does not mean you have not felt sick,” the jötunn said. “Please, Menglöð-Heilari means well. She would see you recovered in the shortest possible time—”

“I’ve recovered, so leave me.”

“Highness, the _kyssa dauði_ is not a light poison.”

“Leave him, Heilari,” a new voice said. Býleistr’s voice.

Loki and the jötunn looked around together. Býleistr looked better than he had done some hours before, glamour in place once again, and he too, like Fárbauti, had cut his hair away.

“My prince,” the jötunn said, ducking his head in Býleistr’s direction. “As I have said to your brother—”

“I know what you said — the racket’s carried through the last five corridors,” Býleistr said. “You’re dismissed, Heilari.”

The jötunn nodded jerkily, then left.

“I didn’t need your interference,” Loki said, not looking at Býleistr.

“Aye, you were doing a marvellous job of shooing him away.”

“I’ll need to call him back in a minute to put your teeth back in,” Loki threatened.

Býleistr shook his head, exasperated. “Walk with me?”

Loki considered for half a second refusing, but he followed Býleistr. They were silent as they made their way through the castle, Loki more content looking at the floor than Býleistr’s back, before they reached the feasting hall. Býleistr held the door open for Loki, then went to the balcony. Loki, curious now, stepped after him.

He found Býleistr sitting on the balustrade, arms crossed and back facing the city below. Loki stopped a few feet further down the balcony, leaning his elbows on the stone and crossing his ankles.

“Are shaved heads the new fashion?” Loki asked dryly after some seconds.

Býleistr lifted his chin. “It is pride. Why haven’t you shaved your head?”

“I won’t,” Loki said.

“It is the warriors’ mark,” Býleistr protested, but Loki didn’t care.

“I said, no.” He sighed heavily. “In Asgard, it’s thralls and bondslaves who shave their heads. I won’t be reduced to a thrall. You say a bald head is pride; to me, it is a mark of utmost shame.”

“You are very strange,” Býleistr mused. “I’d hoped you’d have started to change your mind about many of these things.”

“Some things won’t change about me. I still think you’re an immature prick.” Loki frowned as a memory came to his mind’s eye. “When Hrimgerd was executed, his head was shaved. Why give him such a thing of honour?”

“He did not cut the first lock,” Býleistr explained. “It was forcibly taken from him.” He cast Loki a glance, smirking slightly.

“Oh, wipe that smirk off your face; it doesn’t suit you.”

“I wear it just for you,” Býleistr answered absently.

Loki smiled wolfishly. He laced his fingers together and asked, “How’s Grýla? And your ankle?”

Býleistr was the one to sigh now, and he shifted his weight. “I’m not worried about my ankle — I’m worried about Grýla. Her fever broke during the day.”

Loki nodded. “That’s something.”

“It’s something,” Býleistr agreed. “She’ll recover. Menglöð sent me away, so I came to talk to you.”

Loki turned to look at him, eyebrow raised. “Why?”

Býleistr looked pointedly at Loki. “You brought me here to apologise once. I think it fitting that I say it here — we have bigger problems than what’s happened between us. I am sorry for how I have treated you. I was not … prepared to face a ghost. I thought you dead for a millennium, and then to find out that you’re not only alive, but you think yourself Æsir…. I did not know what to do other than be angry with you for not turning out as I had dreamt. Sitting on my guilt for ten centuries didn’t help, either.”

“This has got to be one of the most long-winded, self-centred apologies I have ever had to sit through,” Loki said, rolling his eyes.

“Take what you get, Loki,” Býleistr said dismissively. “Is my long-winded apology accepted?”

Loki shook his head. “No. If you want my forgiveness, you’ll have to earn it.”

Býleistr huffed. “Fair enough. Is this a start, then?”

Loki said, “It’s hardly a baby-step, but you’re orienting yourself on the right path.”

* * *

#

* * *

Refugees started trickling into the capital two nights after Býleistr and Grýla’s return. There was hardly an hour that went by without the watchtower sounding the horn announcing new arrivals, and Loki eventually drowned it out to a background noise, distracting Helblindi from the roaring activity in the castle by teaching him chess. Helblindi might not have fully understood what was going on, but he understood enough that it had knotted him up with worry.

Sometimes Býleistr joined them, weary from war discussions that covered everything from food supplies to the inpouring of refugees to the arrangement of recruitment plans for the jötnar across the seas. Much of Býleistr’s time too was spent with Grýla. Whilst Menglöð had said that Grýla would make a full recovery, it would be a long while until she was fighting fit again. Helblindi often stole the chessboard Loki had made to take to her, repeating the lessons Loki had taught him until they could play a shaky, amateur game.

Sigyn had received word from her family the night after Loki’s talk with Býleistr. Her dam and younger siblings were coming to Útgarðar for shelter, whilst her sire and elder brother Alfarin were staying on the family estate.

“My dam’s not going to leave me a moment’s peace once she meets you, Loki,” Sigyn groaned when she read the letter.

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Bad for me,” Sigyn grumbled. “She’ll be planning when we’re to have our first baby before you know it.”

Loki had choked so badly on his breath at that Helblindi near laughed himself sick.

But after the refugees came the nobility. Laufey’s orders had spread around the realm, and highborn and lowborn nobility alike had started to pour in to swear their allegiance to Laufey. Útgarðar’s castle was heaving soon enough.

And baying for blood.

A week passed before Laufey called an official assembly of the public.

“Loki.”

Loki had attached his last plate of armour when Fárbauti came to him. She wore her own, scratched and chipped from years of wear and use. She stopped in the doorway to his chambers, looking him up and down with a glimmer of what Loki thought was pride in her eye.

“You look … splendid.”

Loki flicked a glance back to the obsidian mirror behind him as Bryja backed out of the room with a bow. “If you insist,” he said.

“I have a gift,” Fárbauti said. Loki turned back to her just in time to see her present something to him. At first, Loki didn’t recognise what it was, but then when he looked back to her face, the pieces fit.

“A helm?”

“Every one is different,” Fárbauti said. “Crafted with the recipient in mind, and given only when thought worthy enough to wear it.”

It was hardly the most effective helm Loki had seen. For one thing, it only protected the back of his head, leaving the top and his forehead exposed for attack. Fárbauti placed it in his hands, and Loki held it, holding it between his palms and spinning it around. “Thank you,” he said finally, before raising it.

It fit surprisingly well, even over his hair. And the armour felt complete. It wasn’t as if it hadn’t before, but the addition of the helm was finalising in a way.

“Come, Loki,” Fárbauti said behind him. “The realm is waiting.”

Like when Loki had sworn his oaths to Laufey, a troop of guards escorted him to the high address balcony.

“My queen-consort, my prince,” those they came across said, each of them bowing their heads low. There was a fervent hunger in their eyes, Loki noticed. To his surprise, he felt a spark of excited anticipation in his belly. He wondered at that, thinking about Thor and whether this was what he felt whenever the promise of battle loomed over him. Loki had never felt it much, but he could understand how such a thing could be addictive.

The closer they drew to the address balcony, the louder the noise of the crowd outside grew. A great chant thrummed through the space, and when Loki and Fárbauti crested the stairs leading to the balcony, the sound hit Loki like an avalanche. Below was an extent of bodies, of jötnar hungering for blood and battle. Thrill rushed through him again.

Loki’s eyes turned to Býleistr, Grýla standing beside him, still looking ill and not quite herself, but determined to be there all the same. Helblindi was on Býleistr’s other side, drawing up every inch of height he had, eyes flying over the horde beneath. Sigyn stood waiting for him, and Loki went to her, sliding his hand into hers and squeezing her fingers. And then there was Laufey, huge and intimidating, battle-scarred and armoured with thick black metal. He cut an imposing figure with his horns.

It took just a wave of his hand to quiet the crowd. The air was thick with anticipation, wanting to hear when the rebellion against the rightful king’s throne would be crushed.

“Brothers, sisters,” Laufey started, eyeing the jötunn hoard flatly. “You know what brings us together. Some of you over the past months have come to doubt my fitness to be your king. These accusations carry little weight. Those who doubt me have joined with Þrymheimr — the province ruled by a traitor.

“The traitor who flings these lies with such poison is Hroar Enginnssdóttir, who murdered my dam, Nál-Queen, in cold-blood. And why? To take the throne without challenging her rule in _hólmganga_. Why should we break under one such as her, who must resort to such cowardice? We have claimed victory over Asgard in the return of my son, and his strength was heralded from the time of his birth!”

A roar went up from the crowd. A roar that Loki joined, and his voice was loud in his ears.

Laufey eyes were fever-bright. “We are strong! We are proud! And Jötunheimr is no place for those who bend their knees to thieves and murderers!”

“ _No!_ ” the crowd screamed back.

“What has Þrymheimr declared?”

“ _Death!_ ”

“And what shall we give them?!”

“ _Death! DEATH!_ ”

“Hroar will get what she wants,” Laufey breathed. “War.”

 

* * *

_**END OF PART ONE**_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. AM. FINISHED. YES!
> 
> Well, that was a long time coming. Phew, one third down, two thirds to go *crying*. So after living and breathing this for 19 months, right through Yr 12 and into a good chunk of Uni, I’m having a break, and then I’ll get cracking on Part Two. I just need to take a breather from this fic. So I hope you enjoyed Part One, and keep an eye out for the next bit: _Part Two — Then_! I'll be posting information on Tumblr as to what's happening. [Follow my writing blog!](http://www.aylithewriting.tumblr.com/)


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